Curtain Call
by friedmermaidtails
Summary: Smithers finds himself in a tough situation when, in efforts to promote his own musical, he agrees to the role of leading lady in a friend's all-male production of "Hamlet", and inadvertently garners unexpected attention from Burns. As Smithers juggles to keep up his feminine ruse and support his dream of becoming a famous playwright, he finds himself closer to his boss than ever.
1. My Fair Lady

"There is never a time or place for true love.

It happens accidentally, in a heartbeat, in a single flashing, throbbing moment."

― Sarah Dessen, The Truth About Forever

* * *

Chapter One

My Fair Lady

Twilight – a time that had always been utterly captivating; the air so wonderfully crisp, the sky a perfect portrait of blurred hues, the fresh twinkles of night's diamond necklace. It had always been the most peaceful time, a time so blissful after a day of hustle and bustle and ruling over a lucrative empire. For Monty Burns, twilight was perhaps the only time which he felt truly young again, reborn like the glimmering stars overhead.

He drew in a content sigh, his hands clasping together in glee as he strolled the ever-darkening streets of Springfield, which were lit only by the delicate glow of strategically-located streetlamps.

"Ah, twilight – what a shame I couldn't have captured you forever," he spoke to himself, reminiscing about a time when he'd once tried to cast the town into perpetual darkness.

His eyes gleamed as they fruitlessly attempted to count the stars and then turned to take in the luminescence of the streetlamps. It wasn't until a particularly blinding light caught his attention that his awe and joy quickly soured, his hooked smile drooping along his chin.

"Blast!" He cursed in his own manner, impending the reddish glow with angry intent. "What in blazes is spoiling such beauty of a night like this? Why, if I had my way, this whole town would be made to realize just how – eh, what's this?"

The light, that burgundy glow that just moments prior he so deeply despised, came into a sharper focus as Burns found himself standing before an elegant poster, framed in gold and surrounded by a series of flickering bulbs. His brow arched, observing the advertisement and rubbing his chin as he read the bold print.

"We cordially invite you to join tonight's showing of _Hamlet_ ," he muttered before tapping his chin, his smile returning as he continued his promenade toward the doors of the dusty theater that paled in comparison to the beauty of the poster. " _Hamlet_ , eh? Why, I haven't seen that play since I was a lad; well, let us just see if this generation does it any justice."

A tiny scoff of skepticism flited from his chest as he approached the cramped ticket booth, which had begun to deteriorate, for its velvet trimmings were soured with mold and mildew.

"Yes, one ticket for tonight's showing, my good man," Burns confidentially demanded as he propped an elbow upon the ledge of the booth, his expression smug as he fully expected a comedy rather than the tragedy that was promised. However, instead of a ticket stub sliding across the ledge, there was only silence in return for his jeer. "Ackhem! I believe I asked for a tick- oh," the elder trailed off as his eyes opened to reveal an empty booth, which appeared untouched except for by time itself. "Well, it probably isn't worth the money anyhow. I suppose there's no harm in taking a quick peek, after all, I am 'cordially invited'," he snickered as he mocked the ad.

His steps that had once been leisurely and intentionally drawn out had become hasty. He hurriedly came upon the broken doorway where he'd expected a set of golden-handled glass doors, shrugging off the disappointment of luxury as he cautiously ducked into the pitch black building.

His pupils struggled to adjust to just how desolate the theater seemed, thoughts of paranoia swarming in front of his decreased vision. He cowered, hands anxiously rolling over one another and knees knobbing in toward each other, as his blind walk led him down the spider and rat infested corridor adjacent to a room that was wafting with music. Finally, as the paranoia subsided, his eyes regained a glint of that twilight-dreaminess, and his pace quickened toward the melody.

He fought amongst the sea of men that filled the crowd, sharp elbows pushing toward a vacant seat, which was one of the only in the theater. His boney frame was a far cry from the muscular, strapping men that suffocated him, and he shrank into the hard metal chair. He chuckled nervously to himself, drumming the tips of his fingers together in tune with the music.

"U-uh, quite a full house tonight, eh, gentlemen?" He proposed of the two men closest to him, eyes shifting betwixt them. "This show must really be some spectacle."

"Ha! You got that right, grandpa," one of the oafish men boomed, throwing a crushing arm around fragile shoulders. The strangely-cladded man continued his boisterous snickering as his shady eyes drifted in gesture to the only noticeable figure upon the stage. "Just look at the melons on that broad – amazing how they make 'em so life-like these days."

"Oh, yes! But, of course, in my day, women were satisfied with their – err, "melons", as you put it, just as they were; none of this plastic surgery hoo-hah."

An exchanged glance between the two gentlemen caused a nervous sweat to bead along Burns' depleted hairline. However, a sudden riot of laughter from the men had set him at an awkward ease and he contributed his own pathetic titter. The trio carried on for a moment longer before the man to Monty's left shushed them in a harsh scold.

"You two numbskulls, shut up, would you? I don't want to miss a second of that little beauty's number."

Instead of fussing about the name calling and asserting his position among the community, Burns gave a bashful smile and shriveled into his seat, fearful of the mammoth muscles bugling along the other's arm.

"Yes, yes, of course," he faltered with a repeated nod, "not much use in a play if one doesn't pay atten-,"

"Shush!"

Obeying the command, Burns folded his arms grumpily atop his chest and allowed his eyes to drift to the cold, darkened stage. His eyes instantly moved to the spotlight that fell upon the woman the obnoxious neighbor's had ogled at, and it was immediate as to why – short brunette curls framing a well-chiseled face (which was powdered and blushed in all the right places to accentuate the pouty, ruby-lined lips and large doe eyes), a pair of perky bosoms that peaked just above a trim of lace, a waist tightly cinched into an hourglass that surely stole both her and every suitors' breath. Monty's breath was no exception, baiting at the mere sight of a woman who had yet to speak or even move; she simply was, and that was more than enough to stir a wonky flutter behind protruding ribs.

"The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remember'd," a manly voice boomed from the blackness.

The woman then heaved a breath as the light broadened to reveal the entirety of the stage and the man who had spoken standing firm and center. She approached the man with a gleam in her eye, beckoning to the raven-haired Hamlet, and a gentle smile played upon her lovely features. And, after what felt an eternity of suspense, she spoke from those precious garnet lips, "good my lord, how does your honor for this many a day?"

And in return, Hamlet acknowledged the woman, but unlike the lead that waltzed across the stage, Burns did little acknowledging – at least in terms of the plot. Monty had his sights set on finer things, as he often did in life, and his eyes stayed transfixed upon the gorgeous, sharp-cut face of the woman. His mind drifted, the stage slowly vanishing as his visions turned inward and it was suddenly he who stood atop the ratty stage.

He stood mighty, prestigious, a hefty sword hoisted high above his head in spite of his ever-fading strength. He cleared his throat with power and he hooked an arm about the tightly-cinched waist of the one dubbed Ophelia.

"Is this a prologue, or a posy of a ring?" Burns – no longer Burns, but the troubled Prince Hamlet – cited what he recalled of the literature he'd read long ago.

"'Tis brief, my lord."

Burns nodded, "as woman's love."

The fantasy of that powerful yet feminine face, the ideals of sharing the stage with such a wonder, the very thoughts of playing opposite such a fair lady was suddenly tossed away as a roar of claps pulled the elderly man back into the damp theater. He shook away the remainder of his boyish desires, and his frail hands slowly, distractedly began to clap. His eyes were captivated by the portrayer of Ophelia, only to lose the image when the lights dimmed and the stage became seemingly non-existent, and his heart slunk into the pit of his gullet.

"Ophelia!" He beckoned in a whispery shout, talon-like fingers reaching toward the stage before curling to rest thoughtfully upon his lower lip. Monty rose from the uncomfortable seat, cramped and sore, and began to maneuver his way through the crowd. He scowled with impatience as they blocked his path to the lovely actress for whom he'd felt simultaneously smitten. "Out of my way, you brutes!"

* * *

A small group was gathered behind the seedy curtain that had fallen to conceal the stage. The heavenly vision of Ophelia sat atop a wooden crate containing several props, peeling away the shoes that caused her feet to throb, as the others chattered.

"Jew know," the Hamlet from the stage spoke with an accent as thick as his well-manicured brows, "I think we did a pretty good job on jew, _Ophelia_." The name was spoken in an almost teasing manner, a sort of jab at the woman sitting atop the crate.

"Very funny, Julio," the woman spoke with an unexpectedly deep, monotone voice as she massaged against her aching feet. "I'll just be happy to finally get out of this dress."

A feeble clearing of a throat from beyond the curtain drew the attention of the actors, "and such a fine dress, it is."

Eyes darted swiftly, the woman's doe-eyes growing wider, toward the man, who peered around the aged velvet before walking backstage.

"Um, who let jew back here?"

"Julio," the woman retorted in a somewhat stern yet skittish voice, standing upon her calloused, aching feet and approaching the familiar man, "p-please, I'm sure he's just a harmless fan."

"Indeed," Burns snapped with a smirk at Julio, who rolled his eyes with impatience before noticing the actress' trembling. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to speak privately with Miss – um, my sincerest apologies, I didn't happen to pick up a playbill on my way in…."

"I-it's, um," the woman stammered as a fit of giggles erupted from the crew behind her, her heavy brow knitting at the fiery gossip that followed suit. Her head snapped viciously, chin to shoulder, and she spat in a whisper, "oh, will you all just shut up?!" The heavily-powdered face then returned to face the unexpected visitor, and she forced a quivering smile. "Um, it's," those dazzling eyes trailed over to a bag that was slung over a nearby chair, noticing a familiar doll's logo plastered on the front, "Maribelle…? Yes, Maribelle Stacy! It's a pleasure to, err, meet you, but I really must be going."

"Yes, I understand, it can be quite the pain being so rich and famous," Burns agreed with the utmost understanding as he extended a veiny hand toward the woman. "I'm C. Montgomery Burns, but please, call me Monty."

"Oh, well, it's been a pleasure, Monty, but like I said, I have to go," that awkwardly monotone voice explained.

In a painful twist of the feet, the woman scurried over to the chair, grabbing the bag that slung from its back, and hurried toward her dressing room; however, in a bid to excuse the rude actions, she called from the distance, "sorry, I've just… um, I've just remembered I have a very important meeting to get to."

The men who lingered after their leading-lady's disappearance sustained their laughter before Julio sauntered toward Burns, grabbing the pointed shoulders and escorting him in the opposite direction toward the exit.

"Jes, jes, our little Maribelle," he started with a stifled giggle at the name, "is always go, go, go!"

Burns resentfully tugged away from the man with a disgruntled huff and began his descent from the stage, heading toward the exit with eyes adverted toward the ground.

"Maribelle Stacy," he murmured to himself in a pondering tone, "a bit generic for such a stunning woman, but knowing this generation, I suppose she's one of the lucky ones."

* * *

Maribelle Stacy was busily streaking off the thick makeup applications with countless wet wipes as she sat atop an ottoman before a vanity. She grunted and groaned, desperate to be rid of the goop that had inadvertently created a chain of disastrous events.

A half-stifled laugh from the doorway of her dressing room earned a groan from her chest, which had flattened considerably after the padding and prosthetics had been removed.

"So-oo-o," a somewhat high-pitched voice drawled in the manner of a giddy schoolboy, " _that's_ the Mr. Burns you're always talking about!"

"Oh! Shut up, Stewart!"

"What's dee big deal, Waylon?" Julio interjected as he entered the dressing room behind Stewart, placing a hand on Waylon's broad, bare shoulder. "It's not like he even noticed it was jew."

Waylon ignored the statement, though it had a way of weighing heavily upon his mind. He continued to scrub his face, turning jaundice flesh into raw scarlet, as he grumbled to himself, "I can't believe I told him my name was _Maribelle Stacy_. Ugh!"

* * *

"Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back.

Those who wish to sing always find a song.

At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet."

― Plato


	2. Backstage Briefing

"I've never fooled anyone.

I've let people fool themselves.

They didn't bother to find out who and what I was.

Instead they would invent a character for me.

I wouldn't argue with them.

They were obviously loving somebody I wasn't."

― Marilyn Monroe

* * *

Chapter Two

Backstage Briefing

As hands unrelentingly and diligently worked at removing makeup that no longer was, Waylon frowned heavily at his rosy face; his reflection taunted him, mocking his very being and every being he'd ever assumed the role of – first and foremost, Ophelia. His frown turned into a scowl as he sensed the annoying presence of the other two still lingering in the room.

He heaved a sigh, a difficult task as he was torturously-bound by the lacy corset tied about his waist. The wonky, strained breath captured the attention of the others, who looked upon him in pity as they each took a separate spot in the room. Stewart took a seat atop a blue-and-gold chest that held all the little mechanisms used to transform Waylon into a prosthetic-woman, while Julio simply propped himself against the wall closest to the vanity, arms folded over chest.

"C'mon, Waylon," Stewart began with a cautiously-optimistic note, swinging one leg atop the other as he settled against the chest, "tell us what's wrong. You've been scrubbing your face for five minutes; keep going the way you're going, and you won't have any of that wonderful skin left."

Waylon's hand drooped, a dirty wet wipe slung betwixt his fingers, and his eyes took a fresh look in the mirror, observing just how ruddy and dry the flesh had become.

"Great," he grumbled, noticing small freckles of blood scattered in some of the rawer areas. "What do you mean?" He pressed as the question finally registered, and he shifted to face the opposite. "Nothing's wrong, I just wanted to make sure I got it all off. I don't really have time to deal with zits, among other things."

"Jew sure zits are all jou're worried about?" Julio interrogated in suspicion, his brow pursing to sync with his lips. His dark eyes rolled in disbelief as the corset-cladded man glared with fiery daggers.

"I'm sure, Julio!" Waylon snapped through gritted teeth as he slid his glasses back atop the bridge of his nose. "Is it a crime to care about my personal hygiene?"

"Oh, you guys, please, don't fight," Stewart insisted as he rose from the chest and maneuvered to the jeering men. He patted one of each of their shoulders, only to pull away at the frightful looks with which he was pierced. "All I'm saying is that we had a really good show tonight. Why ruin it with all this backstage drama?"

"Well, all _I'm_ saying, is it wouldn't kill you two to stay out of my business. Look, the only reason I agreed to do this show in the first place is because I thought it'd help me promote my next musical." His voice dropped a few octaves into a resentful utter, "and I'd hardly consider a fine-print message on the back of the playbill 'advertisement'."

Waylon went to fold his arms atop his chest, only to scrape the flesh on the metal that held the corset into place. He heavily groaned, struggling to his feet in order to remove the suffocating article. His fingers swung blindly behind his back in a futile attempt to grasp the laces that seemed sewn along his spine.

He grunted in frustration as a moment longer of struggle came to pass, "ugh, where is that string?"

"Here, let me help jew," Julio offered, swiftly taking a strong stance behind the other and studying the complex strings with a seamstress' eye. "We really had to stuff jew in there, so we used some extra threads."

Strong, faux-tan hands worked assiduously at the dozens of intertwining laces, each tug earning a wince from the taller man, "oh, stop being such a baby, Waylon. I'll have jew out of this thing in no time."

A chilling silence tensed the air, interrupted only by the meek yelps of pain caused by metal nicking flesh. The corset's inner workings were slowly being pried apart, partially by the strings and partially by its old age. It had been worn by many a men that once roamed the ruins of the theater, back when it was lively and filled with hopeful spirits, and somehow still managed to cinch just as well as it had around the first waist to don it.

An attempt to break the icy stillness was first proposed by Stewart, who awkwardly readjusted the dress draped over the stiff frame of a mannequin, "say, Waylon, how'd you come up with that name so on the spot like that? I never took you for someone to have a drag-name already thought up."

"I didn't," a short response in a strained breath, "and, let's just say I pulled it out of my bag… literally," he added with a glance toward the bag that unwittingly saved his skin, a bitter chuckle emitting from his thin lips.

The curly-haired, pudgy man nodded when he retraced the glance, his eyes falling upon the logo of the _Malibu Stacy_ doll that Waylon so deeply admired.

"Good idea! I never would have thought of that."

"Jes, jes, he really knows how to think on his feet," Julio spat rapidly as frustration toward the garment mounted, his hands entangled in the snare. "Now, uh, could jew help me out of this?"

"Oh! Of course!" Stewart willingly agreed with a flit of a giggle at the typically cool-tempered man's distress.

Mere seconds transpired before the stoutest of the trio had released Julio from the leather bounds, shooing him shortly thereafter with a quick explanation, "you just let me handle this; my grandmother had a corset just exactly like this one, so I'm pretty sure I can manage."

"Well, thank jew, Stewart," came Julio's half-hearted appreciations, which were tossed away when his attentions returned to the grimacing man, "that leaves me with just enough time to get dee dirt on this Mr. Burns. So, Waylon, spill dee beans – why are jew so worried about this?"

"I'm not!" Two faces that screwed in disbelief caused the broad shoulders to droop, Waylon's defense dropping as he sighed in surrender. "I mean, I'm not really worried… I'm just… ugh, you wouldn't understand."

Stewart's brow cocked as a cheeky smirk came to his face, "ooh, I think someone's a little jealous. But, honestly, it's not like he can ever be with Maribelle Stacy – you _are_ Maribelle Stacy."

"And that's the problem!"

"What do jew mean?"

"What I mean is, Burns will never be with Maribelle Stacy – and as soon as he finds out it was me on that stage tonight, he'll never be with me either."

Just as sadness had invaded his lungs, Waylon's breath was restored with a shocking gasp as his waist was finally rid of the horrid corset. He panted against sore ribs as the hourglass instantaneously returned to its natural, muscular, and boxy form. In his newfound freedom, he staggered toward his bag, rummaging through its contents and removing his button-down, sliding it over his faintly-bruised chest and abdomen.

"Hey," Stewart countered in a reassuring note of relentless optimism, "didn't Mr. Burns say he forgot to pick up a playbill?"

"Yeah… so?"

"So-oo-oo," he continued without hesitation, not a single beat missed, "if he doesn't have a playbill, he can't read it, which means-,"

An abrupt click between once violently charged synapses delivered a wide smile to the glasses-adorned face.

"Which means he doesn't know the cast, and he'll never know it was me!" Waylon cried, a burst of gleeful relief darting along his aching chest as he rose from the ottoman, sliding his jacket over the casually-untucked shirt. "Thank God!"

In spite of the relief that washed over the taller man's face, Julio intercepted with an inadvertently anxiety-inducing question, "but, jew are still going to be Ophelia, jes? We've got another show in three weeks, and jew make dee _best_ Ophelia!"

"Oh, no. No, no, no – after tonight, Maribelle Stacy is dead," Waylon insisted with a hefty scowl, which was etched over the dusting of fear that arose in a blush along his already ruddy cheeks.

"But, Waylon, please! Jew were so great out there tonight; all dee men loved you."

"Yeah, that's why I'm in this mess. How'd Mr. Burns even find this place? It's just some dump on the outskirts of town; the only people who were supposed to get in had a playbill for an invitation."

Stewart gave a rather guilty chuckle as his face flushed with shattered rubies, "s-sorry, I didn't want to miss the play, so I left the ticket booth unattended for a little while."

"Ugh, Stewart!"

"Well, I'm sorry! You two know I can't resist _Hamlet_ , it's one of my favorites!"

"And what are dee odds that Burns would even show up to dee next show. He doesn't have a playbill, so all this stress is for nothing. So, what do jew say, Waylon, will jew still be my fair Ophelia?"

Damn that charm that oozed into that luscious accent! A natural-born trap set for anyone to fall for the pearly smile that coupled with it.

Waylon groaned in a mutter, his eyes rolling behind the thin layers of glass, "I'll…. I'll think about it. But, no promises! I'll have to make sure Mr. Burns knows nothing about this before I let you talk me into that getup again."

* * *

"If there's a single lesson that life teaches us, it's that wishing doesn't make it so."

― Lev Grossman, The Magicians


	3. Playbill Panic

"No more, no less.

I'm an idiot.

I really need to let this crush go."

― Pittacus Lore, The Rise of Nine

* * *

Chapter Three

Playbill Panic

His heart fluttered with anxiety as his hands began to tremble beneath the silver tray he carried toward the door of his boss' office. He took several deep breaths, hoping they wouldn't cool the coffee that steamed from atop the tray, and tried to collect his wits before reaching to knock against the door. The first tap of his knuckles was timid, barely audible, before he managed to give a second attempt, which was enough to earn a small grunt of acknowledgment from behind the oak.

"Uh, sir," Waylon began, forcing words over a dry tongue and pushing the door open enough to step inside. "I brought you some coffee. I also brought you those tax reports you asked for."

As he continued his wilted stride into the office, he couldn't help but take note of the elder man's demeanor – hunched over at the oversized desk, fingers clasped about each other and tucked under chin, icy eyes somewhat softer as they gazed toward the ceiling in deep thought. The sound of the tray being set upon the desk and Waylon's fingers browsing through thick stacks of papers wasn't enough to rouse Burns from the seemingly forlorn state.

"Sir…?"

"Hmm?" Burns retorted, his mind clearly elsewhere as the answer barely crawled from his throat. Scatterbrained, he glanced to his young ward and finally noticed the tray set before him. "Oh, tax reports, of course, just set them on my desk."

Waylon nodded as he set the stack of papers atop the desk, eyes traveling from the stack and to his boss. His mind wandered, trying desperately not to reveal any inkling of knowledge as to why Burns seemed so entranced. Smithers sighed, moving to stand beside his boss, leaning over one of the elder's pointed shoulders and viewing the various papers scattered atop the desk. And, though he knew it wasn't a possibility, his eyes engaged in a vicious search for a playbill, terrified of the unknown.

When Burn's frosty stare returned to him, Waylon jumped in startle, attempting a note of innocence by grasping at one of the files.

"I was just… um, I could just move these to the filing cabinet for you," he urged, repeatedly clunking the files atop the desk in order to perfectly align them with one another. It wasn't until a frail, yet strangely powerful, hand rested atop his own, a gesture to cease his neurotic motions.

"That won't be necessary," Burns interjected, sighing with an air of despair as his gaze drifted downward, focusing on nothing in particular. "Smithers, can I ask you something?"

"Of course, sir; anything."

Anything – how wide a range of things "anything" could encompass. And, yet, Waylon feared he knew the only thing it truly meant. Beads of sweat formed along his hairline as worries stewed in his gullet, and he dreadfully awaited the expected.

"Right, then," the elder man carried on without missing a beat. His hands clasped, index fingers pointing into the hallow of his sharped chin as pointless supports, and he drew in another weighty breath before continuing, "you're into theatrics and whatnot, yes?"

Raw fear – a fear that chilled his spine, tightened his core, stole the very breath he often held baited – overcame the young ward, creating a series of nauseating anxieties to flutter behind his ribs. His hand instinctively grappled with the wire rims of his glasses, jostling them as each nerve ending trembled. He swallowed hard, yearning for the subject to dissolve in the acids of his stomach.

How curious it was that something he had expected could catch him so off-guard! It was as death itself – something everyone could predict and still be absolutely stunned when it finally came to pass. Perhaps, he wished it had been death instead; at least the death of Maribelle Stacy.

With broad eyes, the same eyes that had been so doe-like and shimmery the night prior, Waylon stammered over syllables and grunts before his boss' pressing stare fished the words from his throat, "u-uh, well, y-yes, I… dabble. W-why do you ask?"

"Oh," Burns sharply breathed, his chin wilting into the palms of his hands and his eyes traveling to the concrete world just beyond the window of his office, "just curious, I suppose. Well, there is _one_ other thing – have you ever heard of a Ms. Maribelle Stacy?"

Oh, what a haunting name it had become! Waylon cursed to himself, ruing the moment that name ever sputtered forth from his then-ruby-painted lips, and he nipped at the lower lip that quaked with reluctant resolve.

He coughed into his hand as he muttered, "I… I may have heard of her."

"Eh?" Burns snipped, scowling at his assistant, annoyed by such timid behavior. "Speak up, Smithers! My God, for a man who's into theater, you speak like a mouse."

"S-sorry," the assistant retorted with sorrowful eyes before clearing his throat and speaking in as firm a tone as he could muster through his silent terror, "I just said that, I think I've heard of her before. But, I'm not exactly rubbing elbows with any theatrical big-wigs yet. Mostly just local publishing companies and agen-,"

"Ugh, I didn't ask for your life story, Smithers. I only want to know more about _her_."

As Waylon's lips formed around a response, Burns robbed him of his voice, interjecting into a conversation that had yet to begin, "you know, I had a rather, hmm, _riveting_ trip to the theater just last night."

"Oh?" Smithers urged, hoping the anxious glint in his eye would be mistaken for a lack of knowledge rather than a sign of guilt. "So, that's why you're so interested in Maribelle Stacy all of a sudden, huh, sir? Well, she's a pretty busy woman; she's probably on her way to L.A. or New York by now."

"Hush!" Burns scolded, pressing a slender, boney finger against the other's lips, unwittingly melting the man's chipped and tattered heart. "You sure seem to know more about her than you let on. How can you be so sure she's left Springfield, eh, Smithers? Come on, you can tell Burnsie, it'll stay just between the two of us."

"W-well, I don't, but I _assume_ -,"

"Ah-ah," the powerhouse tsk-ed, shaking his head in mock disappointment, "you know what they say about those who _assume_ ; but, that's not the point. The point is – I _must_ see her again, even if it's only from a distance."

Waylon's typically well-rounded shoulders wilted, his entire spine drooping as it went numb with regrets, and he stared at the other's pitiful state – the same state he often saw reflected in the mirror. He sighed as he slumped against the desk, "you seem to really like her… err, maybe I could, I don't know, pull some strings…?"

Damn! Damn those words! Damn his kindness! Damn his very being!

Ire and hatred for himself bubbled, his self-loathing soaring ever-higher as the words spilled forth without any filter. His mind took no time to buffer, no time to think of the consequences that would inevitably unfold, before allowing those damned words to ooze.

"Well," Burns demanded with a scowl etched along his knife-slash lips and a brow cocked high along a non-existent hairline, "don't just stand there, go pull whatever strings need to be pulled! If she is still in Springfield, she won't be for long. A dame like that isn't exactly a dime-a-dozen, you know?"

"Huh? Oh! Right, I'll… I'll go make some phone calls then."

A nod of affirmation and slight gratitude was the only response as Smithers began to take his leave; that, and a rare smile – a feeble one, but a smile nonetheless – grazing across the wrinkled flesh.

"Oh, and Smithers!"

Waylon turned upon his heel, nervously trembling as his mind faltered. While he grasped at ways around the situation, for any feasible lie he could concoct, he sputtered, "y-yes, sir?"

"I'd like to know when her next show will be; I'm sure there are a few spare playbills floating about, that should tell me everything I need to know."

"P-playbill? Um, sir, I'm sure I could find out when the next show is without a playbill," a mutter spoken through a sting of nervous titters.

"Maybe so," a wash of relief that instantly faded as the conversation bloomed, "but at least a playbill could provide me a picture of my ravishing Ophelia. Oh, that reminds me, the play was _Hamlet_ – I'd suggest you ask more detailed questions next time, Smithers. Why, if I hadn't given you the name, you'd have been on quite the goose chase," Burns finished with a cheeky chortle as he shooed the other with a waving hand. "Now, fetch me one of those playbills."

"Of co-course, sir… anything you say."

* * *

"Don't worry.

Worry is useless.

I worried anyway"

― John Green, The Fault in Our Stars


	4. The Partial Playbill

"We all practice self-deception to a degree; no man can handle complete honesty without being cut at each turn.

There's not enough room in a man's head for sanity alongside each grief, each worry, each terror that he owns.

I'm well used to burying such things in a dark cellar and moving on."

― Mark Lawrence, Prince of Fools

* * *

Chapter Four

The Partial Playbill

He should have never been there in the first place. He had other ways around the predicament, and it wasn't as though the show attracted anyone in interest of promoting his work. Waylon could have denied the role and found publishers outside of his circle of theater and literary friends, but, in some twisted way, he may have found comfort in the limelight. In some way, he wanted to have the role of Ophelia – just to prove to everyone (or maybe just to himself) that he still had the flair, the spark it took to climb to the top.

But, now, all he had proven to himself was that he was a nitwit. He'd proven that he was a fool, and all the regret in the world couldn't erase the night he'd come to rue. No matter how many times his stomach wrenched and his mind pounded him with expletives, he'd never be able to undo the damage he'd caused.

He swore continually in a whisper as he hurriedly ambled down to the mailroom on the lower floors of the plant. His tongue bent on lashing him the punishment he felt he'd come to deserve and his eyes staying glued to the floor, as they felt unworthy of any other place. He watched his shoes move in blurs, glancing upward only when he saw shadows of employees or furniture intruding along his path, sighing grumpily as he felt the aches of the previous night's feminine footwear with every step.

"Hey, watch where you're go-, oh, sorry, Mr. Smithers, I didn't realize that was you, a-heh," a random employee spat as he was bumped into before retracting his harshness when he noticed the supervisor standing close behind him. He waved weakly, earning a glance and grunt from Smithers, who took the opportunity to focus on the signs lining the walls.

"Yeah, sorry," he replied feebly as he continued down an adjacent hallway, following the sign that was pointing toward the mailroom. "It's okay, Waylon," he said to himself as the large sign reading, "Mail Room", hung atop a fast approaching doorway, "what are the chances they even have one? It's not like anyone here would care about something like that."

"Say, did you guys happen to see that play last night?"

Smithers' heart nearly ceased to beat, soaring to the pit of his gullet and throbbing in his feet as his pace quickened. He rushed toward the door, despite the intimidation of the cool metal, and took not a moment's hesitation before tugging at the knob.

The man who'd spoken gave an odd passing glance, "huh, guess Mr. Smithers isn't a Tyler Perry fan. Who knew? So, anyway, guys-,"

Perspiration had traced translucent streaks down his face, and, in a moment of forgetfulness, he pressed his back against the door, sloping toward the floor. Had he'd not heard the hustle and bustle of complaining employees and clanking machines, he may have actually reached the floor; however, as many perplexed looks were shot toward him, he straightened his posture and readjusted the bowtie around his neck.

He commenced his journey toward the head supervisor of the mailroom, walking on eggshells as he felt eyes following him. He cleared his throat when he reached the end of the conveyer belt lines and approached the supervisor, tapping on the pudgy man's softened shoulder.

"Excuse me," Smithers coughed as he fiddled with his glasses before wringing his hands, "I know there's probably no point in asking, but Mr. Burns has requested a copy of last night's playbill from _Hamlet_. You wouldn't happen to have one, would you? No? Well, thanks any-,"

"Whoa, hold your horses, there, Tex," a gruff, yet strangely cheerful, voice lamented, stubby fingers rifling through a stack of paper, "I believe my nephew gave me a copy. Not to sound rude, but he's a bit of a fairy, ya'know?" The man added with a hearty snicker, only for the noise to taper away at the blank stare from the higher-positioned worker. "Ah, here we are! But, uh, what's Burns wantin' with a playbill from some sissy show?"

"Great," Waylon offered through gritted teeth and a phony grin as he took the paper, "and that's classified information, just get back to work."

The man gave a simper that struck electricity through Waylon's partially-beating heart as he spoke, "I reckon Burns is lookin' to get a slice of that pie they call _Maribelle Stacy_ , am I right?"

Smithers' body ceased to function, his entire sensory board short circuiting as prickles replaced all other feelings. He shuddered, gulping profoundly as he eyed the man with suspicious intent, the firm expression far more mild and timid than he'd intended. He fumbled with the pamphlet in his hands, using it as a shield to hide the rosy embarrassment scorching his face.

"Who told you about that?" He snapped, eyes adverting the worker and targeting the floor.

"My nephew – God bless him, he loves gossipin' almost as much as his Momma."

His fists tightened, slightly crumpling the playbill, as he hissed in a deep growl, "ugh, Stewart!"

"Yup, that's him, alright!" The bumpkin-sounding man tittered enthusiastically before being rudely cut off by Smithers jabbing a finger at him.

"That information doesn't leave this room, or you're fired."

As the supervisor began his rushed walk down the line of oafish workers, the southern supervisor called quietly with a cheeky chuckle, "whatever you say, Miss Maribelle."

* * *

Locked away in the solitude and safety of his office, Waylon paced along the carpeted floor, fumbling his fingers over the slick paper of the playbill. His eyes narrowed as his glasses sloped to the end of his nose, watching as the print grew bolder from beyond the bifocals. Sweat began to delicately stain the paper, soaking it with guilt and panic.

"Ugh, look what you've gotten yourself into this time, Waylon?!" he cursed at himself, his eyes cemented to the print that he uttered allowed, "… presents the all-male production… _Hamlet_ …" he paused and sighed at the cast listing, "… Waylon Smithers Jr. as Ophelia… damn it."

His eyes drifted to the clock hanging from the adjacent wall, the second hand repeatedly pricking against his chest, and he knew time was dwindling before Burns would irately commence paging him back to main office. Suddenly, his adrenaline rushed through his veins, sending another layer of sweat to the palms of his hands as he hastily, thoughtlessly began shredding bits and pieces of the paper. Anything that was damning, he tore away, hiding his fault in crooked, ragtag rips; he tore away the entire cast list as to not seem too obvious, the announcement of the play being an all-male production, even the beginning bit of the elegant title to cover his intentions.

It wasn't until the sweat cooled and his heart and breathing slowed to a normal rhythm that he truly realized his actions, noting the sloppy mess he'd made of the playbill. While he breathed a weighty huff of disdain, a faint smile came to his lips as he thought up plausible alibies as he started his stroll back toward his boss' office.

"Okay, there's nothing to worry about," he reassured himself in a silent pep-talk, "just go in and play along. Nothing to wor-,"

"Smithers!"

Smithers jumped at the sharp tone, having failed to notice he'd successfully entered the office and was standing before the intimidating desk. He chortled softly, letting it fizzle away into a cough as Burns' icy stare chilled his bones.

"Well, it i-ii-is about time," Burns hissed, talon-like fingers reaching for and snatching away the pamphlet. "What took you so long, eh, Smithers?" Fingers traced along the ratty tears, further deepening the scowl sprawled along the owner's face. "What is the meaning of this?! This ratty piece of garbage is all you could manage?"

Smithers shamefully nodded, eyes pleading for forgiveness as he whispered an excuse, "must be another rat infestation, sir."

"Oh well, no matter," the elder sighed, slumping against the fabric of his oversized chair and gently peeling open the folds to read the contents. "It still puts me one step closer to that dashing vixen."

The assistant's shoulders wilted as he watched the lovelorn man cling the playbill hopelessly to his chest for a brief moment, guilt almost forcing a confession… almost. But, Waylon remained silent, watching frightfully as he followed Burns' eyes that were skimming every last detail.

"U-um, not to sound like a downer, sir, but I'm sure she's probably tak-,"

"Ah-ha!" Burns exclaimed, interrupting his ward's stammers with his own giddy fit of giggles. "There's an address!"

"Damn…"

"What?"

"Huh? Oh, um, n-nothing."

"Right," the leader said with an arched brow of confusion before shoving the playbill into the younger man's hands. "Smithers, note down that address and take it to the finest florist money can buy."

"But, sir, don't you think you're rushing things a bi-,"

"Hush! Now, go! Nothing is too extravagant for my precious Maribelle Stacy."

Smithers, stunned and taken aback as he scrambled with the paper once again, cleared his throat and fought back the confession that wriggled beneath his Adam's apple. He gulped and nodded, lowering his head as he complied.

"Of course, sir."

* * *

"God hath given you one face, and you make yourself another."

― William Shakespeare, Hamlet


	5. Flowers and Follow-Ups

"Cities, like dreams, are made of desires and fears, even if the thread of their discourse is secret, their rules are absurd, their perspectives deceitful, and everything conceals something else."

― Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities

* * *

Chapter Five

Flowers and Follow-Ups

Colorful bursts of fresh blooms were sprouting just beneath his feet as Waylon leaned over the railing of his friend's apartment. His eyes stared blankly upon the horizon that was Springfield, feeling as though the entire town held a grudge against his very being. There was an ounce of self-pity, yet it was more about a fear of rejection than it was sorrow for himself. His chest wilted over the railing as he heaved a depressed sigh, eyes falling upon the beauty of the miniature, potted garden with lackluster.

"Okay," a familiar accent oozed from behind him as Julio waltzed onto the balcony, carrying a tray of well-catered beverages, "what was all that about on dee phone? Jew sounded so freaked out, I could hardly understand a word jew were saying."

Another sharp, unpleasant exhale came as he accepted one of the crystal glasses spiked with liquor, "thanks. Yeah, sorry about that."

The awkward silence to follow created a deep arch along Julio's brow, and he set the tray on a ratty patio table that was barely big enough to support the platter, his arms folding in curiosity across his chest. He cleared his throat, moving to mock Waylon's stance of leaning over the guardrail, and spoke with a gesturing tone, " _about_? C'mon, Waylon, I need details. Jew were saying something about Stewart-,"

"Pfft, Stewart," Waylon hissed, silently cursing the absent man through teeth gritted tightly with a grudge.

"Err, okay, Stewart's suddenly dee hot button issue here, or am I missing something?"

"Ugh, it's nothing to do with Stewart," he admitted in a weighty flit, suddenly feeling guilty for the anger he harbored toward the wrong man. "But, why couldn't he just keep his mouth shut?"

"He's a chubby, gay man in a small town," Julio countered with a laugh, "what did jew expect?"

Waylon ignored the question, knowing it was mostly a rhetorical attempt to lighten the mood. He shook his head, once again taking in the sight of the blooming flowers, scornfully narrowing his eyes at them. A hefty cough from beside him recaptured his attention, forcing him back into a reality from which he desperately wished to fade from.

"But, that doesn't answer dee question; what was all that panicking over dee phone about?"

Pitiful eyes viewed the Latin man with somewhat guilty peripherals before focusing elsewhere as the opposite spoke, "well, Stewart's uncle works at in the mail department of the plant; but, that's not the point," he continued when Julio shot him a rather confused glance, "the point is, Mr. Burns is so ga-ga over Maribelle Stacy-,"

"Jes, tell me something I don't know."

"I'm getting to it!" Waylon barked, instantly retracting the sharpness of his tone when Julio looked on with disapproving and near-hurt eyes. "Ugh, I'm sorry, Julio; just let me finish, okay? Anyway, I didn't think he'd get _that_ obsessed, but he sent me to get a playbill from the mail room, and, well, you can figure out the rest."

Julio gave an understanding nod and placed a reassuring hand atop his friend's back. He sighed, feeling a twinge of guilt for the other's misfortune, "oh no. So, did he fire jew once he knew it was jew?"

"Huh?" The taller of the two mindlessly commented before realizing his explanation had failed. "Oh! No, no, I, uh, I ripped up the playbill and threw away the cast listing."

"Ooh, jew really are smart," Julio comment with a light smirk before confusion set in. "But, um, what's dee problem? If Mr. Burns still doesn't know dee truth, then what's dee big deal?"

"I forgot to tear up the address for the theater…."

"Oh," the other muttered, tempted to make a sarcastic remark, but shrugged off the temptation as he took in the pathetic sight that Waylon had become. "Um… sorry…? But, I'm sure he won't show up at dee next show."

Waylon's eyes widened behind the thick frames of his glasses, and a realization crashed into his chest like a rib-cracking wrecking ball.

"Oh God, I didn't even think of that! I was just worried about how I was going to take Burns to deliver flowers to myself! Great, just great! Ugh!"

"Waylon, Waylon, calm down," Julio insisted, taking a firm yet friendly tone as he ushered the man to one of the two patio chairs, pushing against Waylon's reluctance to make him sit. He gathered the glass Waylon had earlier and passed it to him. "Here, have a drink and loosen up. Jou're worrying for nothing."

"Nothing? I don't exactly consider this to be nothing, Julio!" Waylon snapped, cradling his throbbing forehead in the palm of his hand as he was seated, and took a sip of the beverage. "God, what did I get myself into? Better question – how am I going to get myself out of this mess?"

Julio collected his own beverage from the table and took a seat in the opposite chair, sitting and watching with the eye of a therapist. He drummed his fingers against his chin, hoping to offer some type of solution or, at the very least, a means of support. As he watched Waylon struggling to plot out the near future, his eyes wandered toward the railing, enjoying the caramel sunset before the flowers' bold colors stole his affections. He smiled at them, finding a certain solace in the beauty amongst the many thorns, and then he smirked – his lips responding to a plan formulating within his mind.

"Say, Waylon?"

A brief, tension-filled silence caused him a moment of grief before a harsh exhale led to a response.

"What?"

"This may sound crazy, but follow me on this," he gushed giddily, rising from his chair and returning to the edge of the balcony, grabbing and manicuring a bundle of the flowers. He drew them up from the pot, turning his nose up at the dirt that he quickly wiped away from the roots, and arranged them within his palm before delivering them to Waylon. "Come on inside," he added as the other gave a befuddled expression, "I have dee perfect paper to wrap them in; I've even got ribbons and name tags. We can spruce them up and Burns will never be dee wiser."

Waylon perked up at the idea, knowing it was foolish and stupid, yet choosing to believe it was a brilliant solution. In that moment, the idea of lying for a chance at successfully keeping up his rouse outweighed the ideas of the horrific consequences should he be exposed. He nodded and arose from his own chair, eagerly following the other into the house despite the jitters that consumed him concerning the situation. While he knew that Burns would never believe such disgraceful, homegrown flowers derived from the "best florist money can buy" regardless of how perfect the wrapping, he found a thought of deceitful comfort – "he believed you were a woman under all that makeup, maybe he'll buy this, too."

"Julio," he spoke up with a timid smile, "you're a genius."

"Jes, well, tell me something I don't know."

* * *

His resolve diminished when morning had blossomed. The numbness toward the situation he'd felt in the cramped apartment had been replaced with buzzing anxiety once he was planted within the workplace. Waylon fumbled over his thoughts, tripping a time or two as he skulked along the expansive hallway leading to Burns' office. His fingers curled around and scrabbled with the bundle of golden-wrapped wildflowers. His eyes were transfixed by the puny buds (which had seemed far more extravagant the night prior), completely overlooking the efforts of the golden wrapping and the satin ribbons.

His mind had begun to wander, consuming him as the thoughts grew more taunting and menacing. His heart was sent into a flutter with adrenaline as he inched ever-closer toward the mocking door of his boss' office. He felt a horrific burning within his gut, as though it were desperately trying to kill him before he'd ever have the chance to enact his poorly-plotted rouse.

"Oh God, this was a stupid idea!" Waylon spat as he found himself standing, trembling beyond control, before the doorway. "Julio's an idiot! Why did I let him talk me into this? Mr. Burns is going to ki-,"

"Well, Smithers!" Burns abruptly bellowed as he flung open the door with vigor, standing confidently before the cowering ward. "How do I look? Do you think the tie is too much?"

Waylon stood frozen, eyes expanding to reveal his startle, and the flowers in his hands nearly slipped to the floor. He shuddered, taking in the sight of his boss being so stunningly-cladded over someone who didn't even exist. He cleared his throat when he was confronted by a concerned stare, something he hadn't been used to coming from a man as poised and powerful as Monty Burns.

"It is, isn't it?" Monty frowned in a tiny sigh, lowering his head as he'd begun to loosen the tie. "I knew I should have had that tailor fired after the whole Company Picnic fiasco. Smithers, see to it that he gets the boot first thing tomorrow morning!"

"No, no," Smithers reassuringly rambled and feverishly shook his head, hesitantly smiling at the elder. "It works." His face blushed tenderly when Burns casually nodded and took the flowers, not even noticing the bundle of inadequate buds and near-blooms. "You look handsome as ever, sir."

A smug expression and a minuscule titter, "excellent."

* * *

"The truly scary thing about undiscovered lies is that they have a greater capacity to diminish us than exposed ones. They erode our strength, our self-esteem, our very foundation."

― Cheryl Hughes


	6. Missing Maribelle

"Maybe ever'body in the whole damn world is scared of each other."

― John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men

* * *

Chapter Six

Missing Maribelle

It hadn't taken long for the scolding to begin once the men were nestled within the car. Burns, losing his worries over his outfit, had turned his attention to the fragrant florals he anticipated hand-delivering into the arms of his theatrical vixen. Mere seconds passed before he peered over the golden wrapping paper, seeing through the façade of shimmers and glitters. He scowled heavily, scoffing at the impudent incompetence of his assistant sitting in the drivers' seat.

"What in blazes is the meaning of this?!" The elder spat as he harshly shoved the bouquet into the front seat and in the way of the drivers' vision. He huffed in a snarl as he fell against the seat and the flowers rested in his lap once again. "I give you a check for the finest flowers and these… these _weeds_ are all you can manage?! Smithers, if you weren't so close in the theater industry and to Maribelle, I'd have your job for this."

The last fragment of the statement was spoken in a cold, numb fashion, leaving a larger impact on Waylon than any screaming tantrum ever could. He readjusted his glasses and recovered from the bouquet's attack, trying to refocus on the road to avoid revealing any hint of truth or fear.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Burns," he uttered as calmly as his nerves would allow, lowering his head toward the wheel. He cleared his throat before continuing with a rather unconvincing lie, "it was such short notice, the florist said it was the best he could do."

"Don't give me excuses, Waylon."

"Sorry, sir," he lamented, though it was more grief for the looming situation than in pity for his boss' dissatisfaction. He adjusted the rearview mirror, fully expecting the grumpy scowl that often greeted him when he did, and sighed when the sight was that of a wilted Monty, gazing forlorn and cautiously hopeful out the window. "Um, I'm sure that Maribelle wouldn't mind as long as they come from you."

"Bah…" Burns scoffed, arms folding over chest once more as his head lowered toward the floorboard. "What do you know? You say you hardly know the woman, and now you talk like you're great bosom buddies. Let me tell you something, Smithers, a woman like that understands the finer things in life – and it's the finer things she shall have!"

"Yeah, the finer things," Waylon muttered sarcastically under his breath as his fingers drummed against the steering wheel as traffic screeched to a halt. "Because working in a ratty theater like that was the best I could do."

"Hmm?"

He froze at the subtle inquiry, chuckling nervously as he stayed focused on the bumper of the car ahead of them, "nothing."

As the string of cars lined the road like a shabby pearl necklace, Waylon hesitantly reached into the pocket of his jacket, rummaging for his cell phone. He fingers prodded against the device, his heart racing as his thoughts whirled about in desperation for an escape plan. Worry gnawed at his gut as he stared at the traffic, silently pleading for the cars to remain frozen against the asphalt in spite of the impatient groans from Burns in the backseat. He withdrew the phone while ignoring the acidic anxieties as he lowered his head toward his lap and began a frantic message to the only person he knew understood the situation, and who had helped him into the trouble in the first place – Julio.

 _New Text Message to Julio:_

 _Get to the theater – ASAP._

Had he not been so nervous and his palms not so sweaty that the phone threatened to slip to the floorboard, he would have typed a bit more; however, explanations had no place amongst the frantic thoughts that consumed him, and he certainly had no time when the blaring of a horn behind him whined, causing him to jump and his phone to fall into the console.

"Smithers, what are you doing up there? Don't you know I'm on a very strict schedule? These weeds that you call "flowers" could die any minute now."

"Right," Smithers piped up in a clearly nervous voice, clearing his throat as he adjusted to the speed of the traffic, "right, sorry. I was just, um, texting a friend to see if they could… could pick up Hercules from the groomers'!"

"Well," Burns spoke in an icy calm that differed greatly from his counterpart's, "next time, make sure to take care of personal business on your own time."

"Of course, sir; it won't happen again."

"Yes, you keep saying that."

* * *

As the theater stood shabbily within the distance, Waylon felt his heart near to burst, his chest shuddering as he could only hope technology and Julio wouldn't fail him. He pulled into the dusty gravel parking lot, the tires of the expensive car squealing unhappily against the terrain, and shifted the car into park. His hands fell from the wheel, sore from the tight grip he'd sustained during the drive, and wrung against an imaginary cloth within his lap.

"Well, we're here," he whispered just loud enough to garner the elder's attention.

Burns' hands were quick to yank repeatedly against the door's handle, nearly snapping it out of place in the struggle against the lock. He grunted as he grew frustrated, grumbling about how the locks were faulty when Smithers actually had taken great care in making sure they were latched prior to the drive.

"Blast! Smithers! Get this damned contraption open! Mustn't keep my love waiting, you know?"

"Love?" Waylon questioned, torn between surges of falter and jealousy. "Damn it, Stewart was right, I _am_ jealous of myself," he whispered and rolled his eyes as he opened his own door, stepping against the gravel with trembling knees. "Please, let Julio be here."

"What are you rambling on about now?" Burns snapped, gathering the flowers and attempting to spruce them up with his fingers before simply concealing them within the paper, as he was released from the automotive prison. His hand swiftly moved to Waylon's chest, hardly taking notice to the rapid beating against the ribs, and shrugged his assistant aside. He took no hesitation as his feet carried him in a scurry toward the door of the theater, which he yanked open and tried to step inside, only to bump into a set of muscles along another man's chest.

"Ah, Mr. Burns," Julio greeted, giving a smile and a gentle wink toward Waylon as the assistant looked in a state of frenzy. "It's so nice to see jew here. Oh! And jew brought flowers, how sweet!"

As Julio reached toward the bouquet, Burns sharply slapped against his hand, pushing it away and standing on tiptoes to peer around the younger man.

"Keep your grubby mitts away from them! They're to hand-delivered from me personally to-,"

"Maribelle Stacy? Jes, I know. Well, I hate to tell jew dis, but Maribelle isn't in today. She's rehearsing for a very important role at a theater in Shellbyville."

Waylon stood in fear behind the elderly man, adoring how swiftly the lie rolled from Julio's tongue before he noticed the expression of broken hopes spread along Monty's face. He heaved a sigh as he placed a firm hand against one of Burns' shoulders, attempting to lessen the depression that had swiftly taken hold.

"I'm so sorry, sir."

Burns scoffed, shrugging away from his subordinate as the hurt expression melted into a desperate anger.

"Oh-ho, she won't get away that easily, Smithers," he grumbled toward Waylon before returning his gaze to the dark-headed man blocking the entrance. "Tell me – when is she expected back?"

Julio smirked, a finger drumming against his chin as he spoke, his dark eyes falling against Waylon's face, "hmm, that's hard to say. But, lucky for jew, I have her number; in fact, she was texting me about jew just yesterday."

A hopeful gasp, "really?"

"Oh, jeah! It's always Monty this and Monty that," the taller man chuckled heartily, indulging in how wide and furious Waylon's eyes had become, as he placed his hands against Burns' shoulders, "tell jew what, I'd be happy to set jew two up on a date; say, this Saturday at eight?"

Burns narrowed his eyes in suspicion, the situation seeming almost too easy.

"What are you after? Money? Fame?"

"What? No, of course not," Julio assured in a mock scoff with a cheeky smirk, his fingers splayed innocently across his own chest. "I do it only out of the kindness of my heart."

"Kindness of the heart, eh? Can't say I've ever heard of that," the elder responded, taking little time to overthink his response, "but, I accept. You wouldn't happen to have a home address would you?"

"Sir-,"

"Hush!"

"How about jew just pick her up here? I'll be sure to have her in tip-top shape for jew."

As though they had struck a business deal, Monty extended his hand toward the other's, shaking it in agreement. The giddiness that had shortly left his face had returned, forcing Waylon to reconstruct a mask of happiness for his boss.

"You, my good man, have a deal," Monty agreed as his stride began towards the car after tossing the flowers to the ground with a careless shrug. "Come along, Smithers, I'd like to stop by an actual florist on the way home."

Waylon's teeth gritted around his words, his head tilted against his shoulder as he glared at Julio, "of course, sir. The finest florist money can buy…."

* * *

Once Burns had been tucked contently away at his manor with a bundle of vivid roses of every shade available, Waylon had returned home, fuming over the complications he hadn't expected.

"Ugh!" He snapped into the air as he fell against his bed, his phone alerting him to a recent text message. "What now?"

 _New Text Message from Julio:_

 _So, what did jew think? Pretty genius, am I right?_

Ire rushed through his veins as his fingers worked without thought against the keyboard, typing a response without even realizing he was moving:

 _New Text Message to Julio:_

 _What in the hell were you thinking?!_

* * *

"When someone you loved was depending on your lie, it was perfectly easy."

― Liane Moriarty, Big Little Lies


	7. A Reluctant Rehearsal

"Passion.

It lies in all of us.

Sleeping... waiting... and though unwanted, unbidden, it will stir... open its jaws and howl.

It speaks to us... guides us.

Passion rules us all.

And we obey.

What other choice do we have?

Passion is the source of our finest moments.

The joy of love... the clarity of hatred... the ecstasy of grief.

It hurts sometimes more than we can bear.

If we could live without passion, maybe we'd know some kind of peace.

But we would be hollow.

Empty rooms, shuttered and dank.

Without passion, we'd be truly dead."

― Joss Whedon

* * *

Chapter Seven

A Reluctant Rehearsal

Arguments (albeit mostly one-sided) were flung between the two texting men, mostly consisting of Waylon ranting in paragraphs and Julio responding with cheeky one-liners and the occasional emoji. The exchanges continued well into the night, only ending when Waylon felt himself wearing down, his boiling rage reduced to a simmer as Julio's strange charm won him over and convinced him the idea was as perfect as it was claimed.

Waylon sighed, setting his phone on the dresser beside his bed, tired of bickering to no avail. His hands covered his face, slowly sliding from forehead to chin, where they rested with his fingers splayed thoughtfully along his lips. He lay against the mattress, staring blankly toward the ceiling as he was blinded by visions that manifested within his mind. At first, they were of his anger from earlier that evening, but those gradually gave way toward the future – a future that radiated heat from face to hands. Again, he sighed, this time in a cautious contentment as he once again retrieved his phone from the dresser, and gave a response that he hadn't expected of himself:

 _New Text Message to Julio:_

 _Fine – I'll go on that date. On one condition, I don't play Ophelia in the next show._

Perhaps had Burns not come along, he would have been happy – maybe even excited – to reprise the role of the lovely lady, but the stress had broken his spirit. Of course, the aspect of performing and producing still burned deeply within him, having always been his escape and oftentimes a way to build a future with the one he loved (something that he knew would remain pure fiction). He smiled as the thoughts once again brushed across his vision – a life built with Monty, a life that he strived for and all but begged for, and the happy family the two would build; it would be the two of them in bliss, just Monty and Maribelle.

The smile faltered as the sudden realization settled. His fantasies had always had a way of teasing him with fictional accounts of a life with his boss, but now they completely deceived him. He had been replaced by a woman that existed only within his own imagination, a woman that he envied in spite of her nonexistence. Just before he could curse his thoughts and the woman he'd created, his phone blared, chasing away any twisted desires:

 _New Text Message from Julio:_

 _Jou're joking, right? Waylon, jew can't bail on us now; jou're the only Ophelia, not to mention the only one who can fit into the costume. Why are jew so upset anyway? I did jew a favor and got jew your dream date with Monty, didn't I?_

While the question was fair and technically correct, Waylon couldn't help but see it as the most absurd babbling. He grumbled a string of words under his breath, only speaking them to avoid typing them and furthering the damage:

 _New Text Message to Julio:_

 _No! You got Maribelle Stacy my dream date with Monty. How the hell am I supposed to escort Burns to a date that I'm supposed to be on, hmm?_

Despite the text weighing heavily and casting doubts upon their friendship, Waylon felt the question was necessary to plan his next moves. He was trapped in a game of chess that had one too many players, each move more intimidating than the last. Every button pressed was a move that would either land him a blissful victory or an agonizing defeat; and the silence that radiated from the phone was proof that he was slowly falling into a stalemate.

"Answer, damn it!" He spat to himself, clutching his phone with such a grip that the screen began to slightly warp. His breath was bated, his body trembling as he stared with narrow eyes at the messaging tab, hoping he could produce a notification with the power of his thoughts.

Finally, much to his relief, a red orb indicating a response appeared on the tab:

 _New Text Message from Julio:_

 _Oh… I didn't think of that. Why don't jew call in sick? I'm sure Monty will understand._

Waylon scoffed, his shoulders wilting while an awkward smirk over Julio's lack of knowledge concerning Burns tugged reluctantly at his lips:

 _New Text Message to Julio:_

 _You really don't know anything about Mr. Burns, do you?_

It wasn't until the message had already been sent that he could practically feel the other laughing on the opposite side of the screen. He sunk into his bed in embarrassment, knowing that the other wouldn't answer without some type of sarcastic jab or poking fun of him. An alert was much faster, confirming his suspicions:

 _New Text Message from Julio:_

 _Well, excu-uu-use me for not being a grandfather-stalker. Anyway, listen, just meet me at the theater for rehearsal tomorrow morning; we can work out the details then._

"I never agreed to – oh, whatever…." Waylon groaned and rolled his eyes as he limply tossed the phone onto the nightstand before curling over to face the wall. He sighed as he clutched onto his pillow, debating on whether to attempt sleeping or simply smother himself. "How do I always get into these things?"

* * *

Daybreak had crept upon Springfield in a timely fashion, disrupting the mischievous events of the night. Every rule breaker, every party-goer, every strung out being – they were all robbed of whatever temporary high they had and were now burdened by the consequences brought about by the morning.

Smithers groggily scoffed as he heard the droning of his phone's alarm, the tiny jingles seeming distant as they flickered just beyond his dreams. As he was sluggishly delivered back into reality and his eyes fluttered open, he turned to the sound with a look of annoyance. He glared at the phone, instantly brushing a finger over the button to dismiss the alarm, and took it into his hands, holding it overhead. His blurred vision (a combination of caked sleep and nearsightedness) took a moment to adjust to the blinding light, which caused him to blink several times in an attempt to focus the screen.

Once he'd thoroughly rid himself of the obnoxious gunk, he managed to see the text message sprawled across the screen:

 _New Text Message from Julio:_

 _Okay, it's ten o'clock! Where are jew?_

Silently, Waylon cursed himself, slurring a line of reluctant phrases as he managed to sit upright. He shifted against the mattress, groaning in irritation as he swung his stiff legs over the edge, letting his feet graze against the floor.

After a moment of recollection, he arose from the bed, rubbing at his temples as he strolled toward the bathroom. His first glance fell upon the mirror, leaving him to cringe at the sight – tired, darkened bags under his eyes, a mop of messy hair usually tamed by gel, a numb expression that falsely represented the complexity of his character. He gave a grunt of disgust to his reflection before raking his fingers through his hair, brushing it back into a more professional style. As his eyes focused on the mirror and he continued to examine all the tiny flaws that freckled his skin, and he lowered his head to break the depressing trance.

"Maybe I just won't show up-," he began before a coincidental chime from his phone rejected the idea. "Damn it, Julio!"

* * *

Pulling into the parking lot of the theater had turned from a promising career move into a horrific nightmare. The eerie scenery of a rotting theater nestled in the middle of an empty parking lot destined to destroy any car that dare drive within it was enough to send chills down anyone's spine; yet, the bland, seemingly-haunted surrounding wasn't what drove Waylon toward the brink of a fatal panic attack – that was Burns' job. Ironically, Burns was also the sole reason that he bothered to return to the desolate grounds, risking his welfare to take a chance at finally establishing a relationship beyond business with the superior.

With trembling hands transferring sweat along the steering wheel, Waylon sat in the drivers' seat of the parked car, breathing in sputters and wrestling with his racing thoughts. He stared at the front of the theater, eyes trembling with worry from the door to around the side, terrified of spotting anyone not related to the rehearsal. He clutched the wheel a bit tighter, leaning over it slightly to gain a better surveillance of the area, and finally swallowed the fiery fears as he reached toward the door handle.

He clamored out of the car, his legs weak beneath him, and propped himself against it. The stalling tactic provided little ease as he noticed a figure pass through the doors, coming to light as it approached him with a Cheshire grin.

"Waylon!" Julio exclaimed in a mixture of relief and excitement, hugging against the other before gesturing for Waylon to follow him into the building. "C'mon, I stayed up all night working on something special for jew."

The cheeky smile and sinister cackle that flitted from Julio further braided Waylon's gullet. He'd known the sassy, Latin man for too long to not be suspicious of any gift or idea proposed by him.

Waylon gave a dull smirk to conceal the suspicion bustling behind his ribs, and he responded with a sarcastic cheer, "gee, thanks, Julio; as if a date with Burns wasn't enough. You're a real pal."

"Oh, would jew get over it. Trust me, I'm doing jew a favor."

"Okay…. And, how is getting me fired and ruining any small chance I might have with Mr. Burns a favor, hmm?"

Julio gave no verbal response, simply rolling his eyes and sighing as he ushered the taller man into the dressing room. He smirked as he watched Waylon instinctively head toward the chest that contained the costume of Ophelia, causing him to clear his throat and gain the annoyed man's attention.

"Ahem, jew won't be needing those old rags."

A cold, yet frightful lament, "what are you talking about? I thought we had rehear-," Waylon began, pausing as his eyes caught a glimpse of a well-dressed mannequin donned in a costume he'd yet to have seen in the studio, "son of a-,"

Julio snickered, interrupting the other's imminent outburst, "aha, jes, I tricked jew. Besides, just consider this rehearsal for Saturday."

"Why do I listen to you?!"

"Because I'm a genius, remember? Now, get jour butt over here so I can tailor the dress."

"No way; this has gone way too far!"

"What are jew so freaked out about?"

"I'm freaked out because you're trying to catfish my boss! Do you not realize how serious this is?"

Waylon's arms folded firmly across his chest as he stood toe-to-toe with the shorter man, glaring down at the seamstress from above the rim of his glasses. While his stance was strong and steady, his eyes flickered the inner emotions that threatened to be vomited onto the floor at any moment; it was that small candle within Waylon that eventually softened Julio's expression and tamed his jaunty behavior.

He sighed as he placed a hand atop the panicked man's broad shoulder, "Waylon, listen, I'm only trying to help jew out. I just know that if Monty sees jew in a different light, he'll come around. So, what do jew say? Please say jes, because I stayed up all night working on the dress alone."

Quick to snapping, Waylon had formed his lips around a bitter shout before it was stolen by Julio's atypical nurturing. His shoulders wilted beneath the dark-haired man's hand and his lungs collapsed in a breath of reluctance. He fidgeted for a moment before feeling his resolve crumbling and motioning toward the mannequin, his hand grazing over the dark fabric of the maxi-dress.

"Ugh, fine… let's just get this over with."

* * *

"You will do foolish things, but do them with enthusiasm."

― Colette


	8. The Making of Maribelle

"I find myself, wearing a mask, pretend play acting when I go out, it's the only way I can cope with it, then when I'm home I'm exhausted and stressed from trying to be someone I'm not.

I over analyze the conversations I had, thinking about what I have said and done."

― Tina J. Richardson

* * *

Chapter Eight

The Making of Maribelle

Waylon squirmed beneath the sun-kissed hands that roamed over his body, struggling to preserve a look of antagonism as broken rubies dusted along his face. He folded his arms atop his chest as a flimsy tape measure was lassoed and tightly cinched about his waist. He glared at the man kneeling upon floor, rolling his eyes as a flashy, toothy smile sparkled in his direction.

"Shouldn't you have done this _before_ you sewed an entire dress?"

"Well," Julio dryly spoke as his eyes narrowed, carefully viewing each number and marking them in the notepad resting next to his foot, "jes, but then jew wouldn't have come back. I figured I knew jour size well enough and could just fix it up when jew got here. Now, stop talking while I'm measuring."

The glaring man grunted in disapproval as he returned to bating his breath, holding as steady as possible as the tape measure was noosed about several different areas of his body, his entire physique documented like a math equation on the steno underfoot. He was tempted to kick the notepad away, his toes wriggling within his shoe as he knew one swipe could abort the entire mission; and, yet, he resisted, allowing Julio to continue fussing over the numbers.

"How much is this going to involve anyway?" He lamented as he was eventually allowed to relax his stance and walk freely about the room. He stepped over toward the mannequin once again, his eyes studying the fabric more deeply than they had before. "Cotton with a lace overlay, huh?"

Julio gave a dull shrug as he, too, approached the mannequin, tying a pincushion around his wrist. He plucked a few of the pins and gripped them betwixt his teeth before giving an obstructed response, "jeah… what's wrong with it?"

The question was spoken with a harsh tongue, clearly being of a rhetorical nature. Smithers bit back a snappy retort of his own and exhaled his frustrations, ignoring the other's sarcasm and limiting his own. As tiny wits buzzed at the base of his neck, he kept them each silent and spoke only through the little clues his body language always left behind; he kneaded at the bridge of his nose in repressed annoyance before sliding his hand down his face and letting it drop limply at his side with a rough sigh.

"Nothing," he deadpanned, examining the dress' every feature, "but, you're avoiding my question."

"Well," the shorter of the two lowly quipped as he snipped away a few stray threads from the dress' hem, "jew'll have to look like a woman, not just a man _dressed_ as a woman, so…" he paused for a brief moment as he falsified thinking when his addition was merely a jeer, "a lot. But, jou're in good hands. Now, um, jew'll have to get rid of those."

Julio pointed at Waylon's figure, gesturing toward the suit he wore with an index finger before jutting a thumb toward an empty costume chest in the corner of the room. Though a harsh rejection scorched his throat, Waylon complied and slinked to the corner, removing his jacket and placing it within the gilded chest.

He nipped his lower lip as his anxiety became more visible in his actions, his fingers fumbling to undo the string of buttons trailing down his abdomen, "a-and you're sure you can make me look… ahem, _authentic_?"

"Waylon," the other began in a breathless chuckle as he tapped the taller man's shoulder, earning a jump and a gasp which brought about another laugh, "jou're so jumpy – relax; I once made a man such a perfect duplicate of Madonna that people were stopping him all night, asking for autographs. So, do jew want my help or not?"

"That doesn't exactly ease my mind," Waylon muttered in a low, unintentional jab toward Madonna, before shaking his head in reluctant agreeance. "…. Yes."

"Okay, then!"

Silence fell between them in an abrupt manner as Julio, impatient with Waylon's fumbling nature, plucked at the buttons and promptly removed the shirt, tossing it hastily into the chest. His faux-tan fingers then flexed over the button of the pants, his expression remaining composed as he slipped them down with ease and added them with other articles of clothing. He arose from kneeling against the floor at that point, taking strong strides toward the foam-woman on the opposite side of the room, before turning his chin to shoulder when Waylon lagged behind.

"Um, Waylon, hello-oo-o…? Any day now would be nice."

"Huh? Oh!" Waylon stammered as he was drawn from his trance and the little visions of the future that taunted him, returning to reality with far less clothing than he'd remembered. He shrugged off the fact that he had been left scantily clad, having been in the same state many times before as he was being primed for the role of Ophelia. His eyes fell downcast upon the wooden floor as he reached the other, standing awkwardly and hardly breathing, and was assisted up onto the pedestal used for fittings. "So, the dress – it'll cover, um, well, you know… everything…? I mean, it just seems a little-,"

"Short? That's the point," Julio interrupted with a cheeky grin as he tugged a box full of props to rest next to him. "Jew have to show a little skin, after all," he added with a low chortle before extracting multiple props and laying them out along the floor for easy access. "Besides, it's not about covering anything, it's just about how well jew tape and tuck things."

"What…? Oh, c'mon! You can't be serious."

"Well, how else are jew supposed to look – and I use jour own words – 'authentic'?"

A fleeting moment of reconsideration was followed by a placid groan that sounded more of a whine, "okay, fine, you're right. Just hurry it up, will you…?"

* * *

Hours trickled by, consumed with warped mixtures of tense silence, snappy quarrels, and satirical banters. Each precious second that ticked by had wisely been used, however, all contributing to transforming one person into not only the opposite gender, but a different person entirely. Every moment was spent on the tedious task of taping, tucking, concealing, and diminishing some things while accentuating, plumping, strapping and gluing on, and creating others. Time was irrelevant as Waylon seemingly vanished from existence and Maribelle clawed her way from his shadow.

Julio stood on aching feet as his fingers expertly balanced an airbrush, which he aimed at Waylon's prosthetic breasts, further blending the silicone with the tone of the jaundice flesh they clung to. With a final flick of the wrist, he heaved a triumph sigh and took a step back, admiring his work with a hand pressed thoughtfully under his chin.

"Jes, jes, that's perfect," he excitedly rambled to himself as he eyed the transformed figure. "I tell jew, Waylon, if I was a straight man and this was the real jew, I would probably just steal jew away from that old Mr. Burns."

"I-is it really that good?" Waylon questioned with uncertainty, having been forbidden to view his reflection until every detail was deemed flawless by the artist. "Because I can't just look like a guy in drag, you know? This has to be per-,"

"Oh, just put these in and take a look at the new and improved Maribelle Stacy!" Julio heartily laughed as he passed a case of contacts to his friend, shoving the man toward the vanity and lighting the bulbs that lined the mirror.

With little confidence, the phony female complied, carefully adjusting the contacts within her eyes and hesitantly correcting her vision to suit them. She blinked, false lashes tickling against her lightened brows as she did so, and focused her sights on the mirror. Plum-colored lips, full and pouty, fell agape at the miraculous reflection, shock consuming the perfectly contoured and rosy face.

"Oh my God… th-there's no way that's me…"

Another gentle titter and a lean against half-exposed shoulders that peaked above a sleeve of black lace, "it's jew alright, jew sexy bitch."

"Julio!"

"What? Is it not true?"

For what seemed the first time since the beginning of their fiasco, the two exchanged a fit of laughter, the tension in the room slowly lifting and being replaced with subtle hints of gratitude. Warmth had been birthed for but a mere moment before its death when a buzzing drone slashed the air, robbing whatever mutual giddiness had taken the two hostage.

"Ooh, that must be our guest!"

Maribelle's eyes widened as she arose from the vanity's seat, her feet resting comfortably in a pair of black flats, which were used in place of Ophelia's heels to lessen the height difference between herself and Burns. Her knees wobbled beneath the layers of sheer-burgundy pantyhose and her stomach, constricted by the tightest of corsets, braided.

"G-guest? What guest? Y-you didn't say anything about a gue-,"

"Monty," Julio boomed proudly as he escorted the elderly man into the cramped fitting room, smiling brightly at a stunned Maribelle, "I'm so glad jew could make it on such short notice. It's a shame Waylon couldn't be here, though."

"Yes, go figure Smithers would choose a time like this to take that mangy mutt of his to the vet," Burns seethed with a scowl before he was ushered fully into the room and his eyes locked onto the woman he'd longed for since the moment they'd first fell upon her.

Maribelle, while offended by the statement and infuriated by the excuse to explain her natural form's absence, shuddered as she fiddled with the strap of the silver clutch that dangled from her wrist.

"Ahem, I do believe we've taken a wrong turn somewhere. I hadn't realized that I was being escorted to Heaven," Monty anxiously and breathlessly spoke in a chortle as he boldly approached Maribelle, capturing her hand and planting a delicate kiss against the flesh. "My precious Maribelle, you're even more beautiful than I remembered."

When the woman failed to speak, her lips trembling in fruitless efforts, Julio was quick to interject himself between the two and provide another poorly executed excuse, "aha, jew'll have to forgive, Mariebelle, she's got a little stage fright."

"U-um," she eventually managed, her voice a deeper pitch than most women but pinched with a higher tone that she forced from the base of her throat, "right, stage fright. It's just that I could have sworn Julio said Saturday over the phone," she shot an icy glare toward the man that blocked her path and gritted her teeth, "must have been that darned airport reception."

"Jes, because I clearly told her-,"

Monty cleared his throat with power and pressed his talon-like finger against Julio's chest, shoving him aside without the slightest amount of pressure, and extended a hand out for Maribelle's to fill.

"None of that matters now," he explained as he gratefully took the woman's hand and cupped it within his own before admiring the shoulder-length, brunette spirals with his other hand, tucking a strand of hair behind the woman's ear. "Now, Maribelle, we must get going if we're going to make our reservation."

As Burns' grip released Maribelle's hand only to snake around her waist, fingers flexing into the curves that only existed due to the steel-cage hidden beneath her dress, and escorted his date toward the door, he nodded a thanks toward Julio.

"Now, don't stay out too late you two," Julio mocked from the doorway as he watched his friend staring back at him with desperate, heavily made-up eyes. "And don't forget to use protection."

While it was intended for a comical purpose, it crawled within Maribelle's ears and inched its way deep into Waylon's mind, nagging at him with a constant reminder to keep the date as innocent as possible. He wanted a simple dinner, maybe a moonlit walk through the park afterward, and to be returned to the theater by midnight. He wanted to mirror Cinderella, dashing away from his prince to avoid being exposed as a lesser, pitiful being. Yes - perhaps that's what _he_ wanted, but, as Monty gently aided her into the back of the limousine, Maribelle wanted much more.

* * *

"I was like a chocolate in a box, looking well behaved and perfect in place, all the while harboring a secret center."

― Deb Caletti, Honey, Baby, Sweetheart


	9. Reserved

"Love, like everything else in life, should be a discovery, an adventure, and like most adventures, you don't know you're having one until you're right in the middle of it."

― E.A. Bucchianeri, Brushstrokes of a Gadfly

* * *

Chapter Nine

Reserved

She was timid, blushing at his every word and movement while hardly speaking herself. She kept quiet for the majority of the ride, only making near-inaudible whimpers of discomfort whenever he inched too close or his hand moved to rest against her knee or brush through her hair. Her body would cringe a bit at every glance he gave her, almost as though she wished to retreat within herself.

Monty, while mildly offended, held a toothy grin as he cleared his throat and posed a simple question, "is anything the matter?"

Maribelle's eyes expanded as they shifted to the man sitting beside her, making eye contact for the first time since entering the vehicle. Her face flushed, contrasting against the rosiness that boiled along the bridge of her nose, and she shook her head feverishly, terrified to speak yet equally terrified of remaining silent.

"U-um, n-no," she stammered as her head lowered, her eyes falling to rest upon her lap, where her hands were busy wringing around the silver clutch hooked to her wrist, "no, of course not. Why do you ask?"

The man shrugged, scooting as close to the woman as his seatbelt would allow, and continued in a somber manner, "oh, I don't know; you haven't had much to say to me since we left the theater. Have I done something to offend you?"

His eyes were smoldering, pleading for an answer, clashing with the cold expression he kept. Had those eyes always held such emotion when his face held none, or had Smithers simply never been able to harbor such an intense gaze? Regardless, the look came with the same outcome – Maribelle shifting uncomfortably in her seat and staring at the floorboard. She shook her head again, all the while being cursed by the identity hidden beyond the dress and makeup.

"No…" she trailed off, her voice a whisper that often times earned Waylon a scolding from the elder. It wasn't until she felt his gaze shift elsewhere that her own fell upon the side of his face, admiring the strong features of an aging profile. "It's just-,"

The vehicle stalled in that moment, cutting off Maribelle's rambling and causing her heart to mock the engine – stalling and grinding to a momentary halt. The driver of the automobile knocked against the tinted glass that had separated him from his passengers before rolling it down, speaking to Monty without so much as a passing glance.

"This is the place," the driver announced with a gruff rasp as he absorbed the expensive surroundings. "Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Burns?"

Burns took no time to answer, exiting the vehicle and swiftly waltzing to the opposite side, opening the door for Maribelle, who nearly fell as she'd been trying to open the door herself. Boney arms managed to prevent the slight stumble, hugging about her waist before retracting and sliding to her hands. Her face burned and her stomach lurched with embarrassment while her mind buzzed with resentment, Waylon hating her for receiving such underserved attention from a man she'd only met yet he had known for a lifetime.

"Oh, careful!" The elderly man warned in a teasing fashion, his fingers curling around the other's, "wouldn't want to tarnish that radiant skin of yours, now would we?"

"No, si- err, Monty," she awkwardly giggled, all the while boiling with wrath beneath the charade.

"Funny," Monty commented with a frail smirk, "I could have sworn you sounded just like-,"

"Ahem! I don't mean to interrupt, but aren't we going to miss our reservation?"

Maribelle gave no hesitation as she scurried ahead of her date, dragging him along by the hand, and ushering him to the spotless glass doors of the restaurant. Her free hand curled around the golden bar, tugging open the door and scuffling inside before finally realizing the hastiness of her actions. She calmed herself, clearing her throat as Monty stood cumbersomely beside her, staring at her with the utmost befuddlement.

"Sorry, I guess I'm just a little excited…."

Burns only provided a curious smile and a nod as he stepped toward the podium situated at the front of the eatery, "indeed." His attention turned to the server standing at the podium, "yes, I have a reservation – Montgomery Burns, party of two."

"Of course! Right this way, Mr. Burns."

* * *

Hush hovered overhead, drowning out any clatters and bangs that arose from the kitchen near their table, and brought about an eerie tension between them. Any move that Monty made was reflected by Maribelle jumping, every motion toward her or in her direction causing her to lower her head, exposing Waylon's shame. The woman could only blush so much, could only hide behind a menu for so long before she had to reciprocate her date's advances; that time coming much too quickly as her menu was taken by a waiter and her face was incapable of producing any shade other than a sickly grey.

"Are you sure you're alright, dear?"

She silently lied with a shake of her head, shifting her focus from her lap to the appetizers that garnished the pristine white tablecloth. Her fingers stretched toward the nearest napkin, using it to mask the sour expression on her face as she ultimately managed to speak, "I'm fine."

"Fine, eh? I suppose that's why you've been hiding your face from me all evening, hmm?" Monty, growing impatient by the lady's hesitancy for such trivial things as conversation and basic eye contact, snatched the napkin from his date's hands, divulging her dumbfounded expression. He leaned across the table, his sharpened elbow supporting his weight, and gawked at Maribelle with a blend of wonder and pity. "My dear Maribelle, there's nothing I want more than to see to your happiness."

"Oh, please! You hardly know me!" Waylon snapped aloud, causing Maribelle to bite her plum-stained lip, which quivered as the jagged spat exited his brain and her mouth. "I… I mean… it's just… oh, God, what have I gotten myself into?"

The shock consuming the wrinkled face that hovered mere inches from her own forced Maribelle to wilt in her seat, her body slumping like a dying flower as she buried her face in the palms of her hands. The hiding was pointless, however, as Monty's talon-like fingers curled around her wrists, softly tugging them away to reveal the flustered tears that daubed her eyes and smudged her mascara. Burns' expression was forgiving – almost concerned – as he frowned with apprehension at the woman, his hands soon curving into hers.

"Listen, Maribelle," he started in a tender yet authoritative tone, staring deeply into the watery, blackened mess that was becoming of his partner's eyes, "I've never been one for romances that were more than the occasional fling; and while we've only just met, I can't help but feel like I've known you for a lifetime," his tone drifted into a titter before returning, "oho, listen to me, carrying on like some kind of hopeless romantic. Now that that's out of the way, I'll make you a deal – I'll have my driver take you home right now if you allow me just one tiny thing first."

"And wh-what might that be?"

"A kiss."

Approached with the impulsive proposition and Burns' closely lingering face, which took advantage of her stalling by moving to steal the kiss without a formal response, created a series of emotions that lined the back of her throat. Her voice had given out for a moment as their lips grazed, her only means of rejection being to sharply snap her head to the side, her contoured cheek earning the kiss that had been intended for her glossy lips. Her chest clenched, her breath freezing in her lungs and settling like concrete, as she pushed away from the table and roughly barked, "I can't! I'm sorry, but I can't do this anymore!"

Monty, his tolerance tested and spent, scowled and his tone mimicked the harshness of his counterpart's, "what in Heaven's name is the matter with you, woman? You think you can just string men along with your ravishing looks and voluptuous curves and not expect them to jump at the chance?! Well, I can tell you one thing, Ms. Stacey, I have ways of getting what I want – and what I want is you. So, we can either sit here and twiddle our thumbs, or we can make good on our deal. What do you say to that?"

Maribelle's teeth gritted for a moment, a scorching counter numbing her throat with ire. Her expression was twisted, somewhat confused, and wearing down from blazing fury to exasperated shame. Her stiffened posture fell, collapsing in her chair as a painful sigh tore from her chest and soured the air, and her eyes shakily moved to meet the other's.

"I'm sorry, sir," Waylon explained as his ruse began to crumble from within, his walls caving in to crush his very soul, "but, I can't take advantage of you like this…"

Cutting off any chance Monty had to reflect the response, Waylon reached for the napkin that had just moments prior been used to conceal his identity and dipped the cloth into the glass of water sitting nearby. He pressed the dampened cloth to the thick makeup tainting his face, blindly swiping at the goop and chipping away the mask that had taken hours to construct. The cloth was soon discarded atop the table, caked with splotches of mascara and lipstick, and Waylon's hands turned to the clutch dangling from his wrist. He pried open the silver clasp, trembling as he flipped it over and spilled its contents atop the table, his fingers fumbling with the glasses that had been hiding within it. Despite the contacts still covering his eyes, he adjusted the spectacles atop the bridge of his nose, his free hand simultaneously removing the wig from his scalp.

The truth – how he'd longed for it to be exposed! And yet, now that he was sitting before his boss and the strangers he'd forgotten existed, he would do anything for a lie, anything to be anyone other than himself. While his feminine ruse had been lifted, freeing him from Maribelle's clutches, the pain remained. It scorned him, taking its revenge by striking him with the inability to hear or see, leaving him to blindly stagger as he arose from his chair and commenced a speedy exit.

"I'll pick up my things from the office first thing tomorrow morning," he grumbled from a sob-strained throat, the assumptions whispering in the back of his mind speaking far louder than anyone around him, as he stumbled through the door and into the parking lot.

He had staggered a mere few feet down the stretch of sidewalk before he was collected enough to notice the missing strap that should've been wrapped around his wrist. The clutch he'd kept his identity confined in had been left behind, strewn upon the table, it and all its secrets sprawled out for his boss to plunder. "Ugh, damn it!"

* * *

The odd stares and cheeky whispers from the crowd whispered along Burns' neck, to which he bit back, "and just what do you all find so amusing? Haven't you ever seen a play rehearsal before?"

Skeptical mutters from the crowd sparked for a brief moment before tapering into a bitter silence as many patrons returned to their meals or fled to other tables. As the people around grew quiet, Monty found himself able to think clearly for the first time since the evening had begun. He was furious, he was hurt and bitter, he was crushed – his emotions were a whirlwind, a sea of overstimulation as he slumped into his seat. His eyes fell dully toward the table, livening slightly when they caught glimpse of the various items that had been discarded from the clutch. There were spare lipsticks and mints, things that were to be expected from a woman's purse, and then there were tiny truths – a contact lens case, strange bindings that Burns had never seen the likes of, and a folded paper.

"Eh? What's this?" Burns pondered aloud, his fingers outstretching toward the paper, instantly recognizing its font and display photos. The playbill he'd asked for days prior now rested within his hands, this time revealing all its burning secrets. His eyes scanned the portions he'd been shielded from, reading the pamphlet from title to fine-printed copyright information. "So, Smithers is trying to be a playwright again, is he? Well, he's not the only one with a few tricks up his sleeve…."

* * *

"You meet a new person, you go with him and suddenly you get a whole new city... you go down new streets, you see houses you never saw before, pass places you didn't even know were there.

Everything changes."

― Samuel R. Delany, Dhalgren


	10. Those Who Assume

"Expose yourself to your deepest fear; after that, fear has no power, and the fear of freedom shrinks and vanishes.

You are free."

― Jim Morrison

* * *

Chapter Ten

Those Who Assume

The darkness of night provided a somewhat decent cover as Waylon continued to stumble down the streets and sidewalks of Springfield. His face was pinched red with mortification, for even the thought of him being seen in such a distraught mess made him cringe. He could only imagine the faces or comments his appearance would earn him, knowing well that his masculine face would reveal what the makeshift female body was concealing. It wouldn't take a genius to point out that, instead of the woman that left the theater, he was merely a man in drag – an emotionally unstable one at that.

However, the streets were abandoned for the most part; not many threaded the path he was on as the theater he and his friends had been using was just an empty, supposedly-haunted theater from years long before they had even been birthed. It was discouraging that what once was such a lavish and proud cinema had been reduced to rubble, but that fact was now the only thing to provide him with any type of refuge.

His vision was blurred and his head was throbbing as he'd forgotten he was wearing both contacts and glasses. He groaned in distaste, regretting his hasty departure and the ramifications that came along with it. His head tilted backward, his squirming vision gazing up at the dark sky that loomed overhead, and he uttered curses to whomever or whatever had led him to that theater in the first place.

"This is all Julio's fault," he groused as his arms crossed over the silicone chest beneath the tight-clinging fabric of his dress.

"What exactly is all my fault?" Julio pressed as his car drove leisurely, intimidatingly close to the other, who jumped away from the sudden voice.

Waylon's body tensed for a moment as a thousand nightmares penetrated his heart and threw it into a chaotic pattern. His hand rushed to his chest, the silicone bosom greeting his fingers and fueling his antagonism. His body twisted in the direction of the voice, stomping toward the vehicle and leaning against the window of the passengers' door.

"Damn it, Julio, you nearly gave me a heart attack!"

"Gave jew a heart attack?" The driver scoffed with a laugh as he shifted the car into park. "How do jew think I felt when I saw jew walking down the street looking like… well, like… _that_?"

Waylon hissed softly, biting back the bitter rage that scalded his tongue, before speaking in a stiff, strained note, "ugh, never mind that. What are you even doing here? Spying on me?"

The other shrugged with a mischievous smirk, his body leaning across the seats and pushing the passengers' side door open, and countered calmly, "maybe..." The calmness of his tone, however, was reduced to a somewhat uneasy titter as the glare from Waylon gored him with daggers, "excu-uu-use me for trying to lighten jour mood. But, no, I just followed jew to make sure something like this wouldn't happen."

"… then why in the hell did you let me walk three miles? I felt like an idiot! What if one of those no-good workers from the plant saw me like this-,"

"Waylon, Waylon, relax," Julio shushed, patting the empty seat beside him. "Just get in. I'll take jew home, okay?"

A series on insults, sarcastic comebacks, and refusals coated Waylon's tongue, sharpening it with outrage. However, the clouds pending above were the first to unleash their wrath, releasing an abrupt downpour of rain that practically forced the man into the cramped car. He scowled, his head lowering toward the floorboard while his stomach lurched toward the ballet flats dressing his feet. Despite the animosity he felt toward both the weather and the driver, there was a twinkle of relief – the rain had washed away the signs of tears and leftover makeup residue, and the car provided him an escape from the weather.

Swallowing whatever ire soured his tongue, he sighed and slumped against the seat, his pride wavering just long enough for him to press the conversation forward, "… alright, fine, just take me home."

The witty remarks that had been expected had bypassed them, throwing the car into an uncomfortable purgatory of hush. Each was on the verge of speaking, yet neither wanted to mention the inevitable nor admit to the faults that brought them to that point. While both burned with the yearning to bring up the outcome of the dinner, neither wanted to open wounds that may or may not have existed.

Nonetheless, as the asphalt grew darker and the rain heavier, there was nothing much to keep their minds distracted from their thoughts. The scenery beyond the windows was seemingly desolate, masqueraded by the darkness of night and the cascades of rain blurring the windows.

"So," Julio was the first to break free of the conversational purgatory, clearing his throat while avoiding eye contact, "how did Monty react to his precious Maribelle having a pe-,"

"Julio!" The cantankerous passenger spat, embarrassed and appalled by the incomplete statement. The embarrassment was short-lived, quickly being replaced with a fiery agony. Waylon's posture collapsed, his forehead nearly pressing against the dash, and a hefty breath managed to force its way from beyond the corset. "I… I'd rather not talk about it. But, I'm pretty sure I can kiss my job goodbye."

"Pretty sure? What do jew mean? Either he fired jew or he didn't; so, which is it?"

The hatred of his hurried leave merely escalated at the question. He mentally scolded himself for not allowing Burns to speak his decision, making an assumption (no matter how accurate that assumption seemed to be). Waylon's head was near to burst, a migraine gnawing at as his frontal lobe, worsening his already weakened vision. A groan-like whimper tore from his body as he buried his face within the palms of his hands, sliding them down his face until the fell limply atop his lap.

"I am so stupid," he uttered to himself in a whisper of a sigh. His attention turned to Julio, the man's gold-tinted face holding what felt to be an uncommon concern, and continued, "I didn't even give him time to fire me. But, trust me, I know Mr. Burns better than anyone – I'm fired."

Julio shrugged a bit, his eyes wandering away when they momentarily captured Waylon's, nervously joking, "jew know what they say about people who assume, don't jew, Waylon?"

"… just drive."

* * *

Communication between Julio and Waylon had grown scarce once they'd departed from one another. The occasional text was tossed back and forth throughout the night, slowly whittling to the point of nonexistence.

The morning sun had risen, piercing the veil of Waylon's sheer curtains. The radiant fibers and warmth fell upon the restless man's face, waking him from an uncomfortable sleep. It warmed him for a moment, assuring him the fiasco had been a horrific nightmare; however, the beams soon taunted him as they reflected against the screen of his phone, leading his eyes to the screen and the notification of a missed text. His breath bated and his heart froze, pins and needles pricking every pore of his body, as he reached for the device and read the contents:

 _New Text Message from Julio:_

 _Be sure jew give me the details on what happens between jew and Burns today._

"Damn it," he groggily swore beneath his breath, carelessly slinging the phone atop his nightstand as he arose from the bed.

His ribs ached, scarred and bruised from the corset that took nearly an hour to remove, crippling him for a moment before he toughened himself. With a cleansing breath, he forced through the pain and shuffled toward the confined bathroom across the hall. He grabbed a casual polo that hung from the hook on the door, seeing no point in wearing his traditional uniform, and sketchily let it drape over the hem of his pants.

"Alright, Waylon," he spoke to himself while observing the reflection of a broken man that tainted his mirror, "let's get this over with."

* * *

Paranoia – it consumed his very being as he roamed the halls of the plant. His shoulders slouched as he'd convinced himself he wouldn't be seen if he walked with his gaze plastered to the floor. Every laugh that polluted the air was about him, every whisper was filled with details of his scandal, every glance thrown his way was merely to question what gall he had to return to work – all assumptions that damned his sanity. Logically, he knew Burns wouldn't jeopardize further humiliating himself at Waylon's expense, but the illogical suspicions remained and he no longer put anything past anyone.

The brisk pace eventually carried him to contemptuous door of Burns' office. Waylon gulped, tugging at the collar of the sloppy polo, as his heart teased his gag-reflex and was nearly vomited onto the floor. Memories of the night before irritated his vision and hinder him for a moment, leaving him awkwardly standing before the door. His lungs turned to concrete and his legs to gelatin until he gained an ounce of bravery to knock.

A spine-chillingly melancholy voice carried from the opposite side of the door, "well, well, it _is_ about time you showed up. Smithers, come in here, please; there are some things I feel we should discuss…."

* * *

"Don't be afraid of your fears.

They're not there to scare you.

They're there to let you know that something is worth it."

― C. JoyBell C.


	11. Advertisements of Affection

"The worst thing that could happen had finally happened.

And there was a kind of relief in it, maybe."

― John Green, Let It Snow

* * *

Chapter Eleven

Advertisements of Affection

Perhaps it was the depressive overlay dressing Monty's voice or the strangely emotionless expression drawn across his face that left Waylon struggling to breathe, but regardless the assistant skulked toward the desk at the opposite end of the room. There was certain darkness that enveloped the room despite the colossal windows painting the walls with the intense beams of the sun. It was a darkness that wasn't shown, but felt deeply and certainly within his being – a shadow glossing over his vision to either protect or harm him, though he wasn't sure as to which.

He heaved a breath, his inner workings dwindling into his shoes while his physical body somehow managed to stand firm, "I… I know what you're going say; well, don't worry, I'm just here for my things and then I'll lea-,"

"At ease, Smithers."

His heart flinched as head snapped toward his superior in astonishment, "ah, wh-what?" He took a moment to mentally scold himself, fingers clasped to the bridge of his nose as he loosely shook his head – damn his tongue for such daft lapses. "I mean… what?"

"Rather redundant, are we, Waylon?" Burns dully stated as a pitiful chortle found his lips. His hands moved from beneath his chin to atop the desk, fingers sweeping over a heap of evidence from the night before. "Well, if you're here for your things, may I suggest you start with these?" He pushed further, one hand sliding the silver clutch across the desk while the other gestured Waylon closer.

Rubies dredged the younger's cheeks as his eyes targeted the clutch. Minute whimpers of regret teased the back of his mind as he begrudgingly stepped toward Burns, his heart clogging and growing stiff as the noose tightened.

"Sir, I am really, really sorry about all of this. I never thought it would get so out of hand," Smithers blathered, his words stringing together in a tightly-laced necklace.

Burns merely raised his hand, halting the others' jabbering with not so much as a word. He swiftly collected the clutch, pulling it from his assistant's fervent grasp, and pried open the clasp. Without much regard, he overturned the clutch, spilling the contents and forcing the other into an unneeded explanation. "You know, you're really more of a summer," he sneered with a mild scowl, holding up the tube of deep-plum lipstick. "So, care to explain yourself? Or should I just assume I was some pathetic pawn in your theatrical pipedream?"

A spark of anger glimmered amidst the whirlwind of unease, making Waylon's stomach lurch while his tongue lashed unspoken words against his teeth. The fact that he'd gone to such lengths to protect Burns from the truth filled him with a spine-numbing guilt, while the words the elder spat toward him brought about an unexplainable ire. He had unexpectedly found himself juggling two confrontations – one of apologies and one of self-defense. It wasn't the first time he'd taken blows to his dignity or had his self-worth diminished, but it was the first that he'd been truly frustrated enough to retaliate.

"I'll explain myself," he deadpanned, arms crossing atop his chest as his eyes narrowed on the other's crinkled face. "You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I never would have thought you'd show up at some dumpy theater in the middle of nowhere. And, I certainly didn't plan for you to fall head-over-heels for a man in a dress. To be frank with you, this is _your_ fault, sir."

Burns' jaw slacked, mouth agape in a fleeting tick of astonishment, before the corner of his lip perked into a leer. His arms moved to imitate Waylon's, folded over chest and promoting his attitude.

"If only you were as grand of an actor on stage as you are here," the elder coolly stated, his expression frozen into the smug grin. He leaned deeper into his chair, tossing spindly legs atop the desk and crossing one ankle over the other. His very posture urged the other on, that arrogant expression daring for some type of vengeance – and, in a way, Burns sought to fuel the fire. He wanted to see just how far he could push his lackey to see him break. He'd heard of Smithers' meltdowns, heard of how violently drunk the subordinate would become from his rejections; he had heard of the many times that Smithers had been broken, but never had he seen it. So, he pressed further, heating the subject and Waylon's collar, "I must admit, Smithers, you pulled the wool over my eyes with your little charade, but you made a few crucial errors in your acting-,"

"Apparently they weren't that noticeable, considering how hands-y you were in the back of the limo."

There it was – that fire that Burns had yearned to trigger. But, it was merely a spark, not the chaotic explosion that would prove the clandestine efforts he'd set into motion.

"Yes, but one thing a great actress – err, actor – must never do is break character, particularly midway through the show."

"Ugh! This isn't even what this is about!" Waylon snapped in a clearly-restrained bark, massaging the bridge of his nose and momentarily pushing his glasses atop his head. "Look, it doesn't even matter. It's not like I have a job anymore, so, just give me my stuff and I'll leave."

"O-ho! Running out on another performance, eh?" Burns countered with a mischievous grin, sarcastically clapping his hands as he returned to a proper posture behind the desk. He insultingly shook his head, lowering it for a moment as his hand moved to Waylon's, preventing the other from gathering the scattered belongings. "Typical."

A blazing heat climbed from his core and stewed behind his cheeks as Smithers' patience was ground into dust. His brow heavily furrowed, teeth gritting and fists balling at his sides. Once Burns had pulled away, Waylon resumed retrieving his belongings, swiping them into the clutch with the palm of his hand and tucking it securely in the inner pocket of his blazer.

With his possessions collected, he could have left; he could have easily turned his back toward his boss and fled through the door, just as he'd done the night prior. Yet, he stood there, blankly and irately glaring at the elderly man's face with a sharp snarl. He could have left; but the longer he glared, the longer decades worth of emotion flooded his veins, the firmer his feet seemed to plant into the ground. He felt rooted to the floor, paralyzed in that moment by anger rather than fear.

"I'll have you know that I'm a damn good actor," he spat betwixt clenched teeth, "and a damn good writer. If you recall, I did have one of my shows produced in New Mexico."

"I'm aware of that," Burns nodded, his smirk never fleeing from his face, "but, what does that matter? You think one measly production makes you some sort of Shakespeare? That'd be like saying a man with a single dollar is a billionaire."

The look in Waylon's eye in that instant filled the elder with a sense of accomplishment, and the answer he received deepened the sensation and his twisted smile.

"My God, Monty! Is nothing I do ever good enough for you? What do I have to do? Parade around in a dress and high-heels all day for you to even take a second glance at me?!"

The simper strengthened, "well done, Waylon."

The younger's lips froze around unspoken words, his tense expression softening into confusion and his body relaxing. "… um, what?"

Burns couldn't suppress a faint chuckle as he ruffled through a few papers on the desk, withdrawing the playbill he'd recovered the night prior. He pushed the playbill across the desk, smiling triumphantly as Waylon's perplexed gaze turned to it.

"What in the hell is that supposed to mean?" Waylon questioned, his voice wavering in contrast to its prior firmness.

"I'd suggest you be a bit kinder toward you're new producer, Smithers."

And, suddenly, all pent up wrath seemingly washed into obscurity as Waylon's hands clasped over his mouth before rapidly moving to grip one of Burns' brittle hands, shaking the limb like a defenseless ragdoll.

"Thank you, sir!" Waylon professed with a wide, giddy grin, continuing to jostle the other about before Burns' tugged away. "Aha, and to think I actually thought you were calling me here to fire me. But," the happiness wavered, replaced with distrust, "why are you doing this? I must have broken your heart – err, well, _Maribelle_ must have anyway. Um, this isn't some kind of sick joke, is it?"

"I don't have time for such tomfoolery, Smithers. No, I'm all too serious," the leader informed, quickly raising a hand to hush Smithers' eager words, "on one condition, of course. You see, I can't just go throwing money about willy-nilly. So, in terms of your little outburst, I do, as a matter of fact, expect you to gallivant about in costume – only to prove that supporting your silly endeavors won't disgrace _my_ reputation."

A seemingly perpetual look of befuddlement tarnished Waylon's face, and he damned the question that passed his lips, "wait, let me get this straight, you want me to walk around dressed as Maribelle? Sir, I… I'm afraid I don't understand."

"O-ho! No! No, not as Maribelle – in fact, if I ever catch you in that outfit again, I _will_ have your job," Monty heartily laughed, gingerly slapping his knee before pressing his index-fingers into the hollow of his jaw. "Any-who, I was referring to Ophelia. I believe that little friend of yours from the theater said there was another showing soon, yes?"

* * *

Impatience overwhelmed Julio's system as he drummed his foot against the dressing room's floor. His dark eyes frequently switched between the door and his watch, an exasperated groan slipping past his plump lips when the clock ticked ever-forward.

"Ugh, he told me five minutes," he snapped a bit as he head tilted toward Stewart, who sat keenly on the edge of a prop chest, and strolled in the pudgy man's direction, taking a seat next to him. "He did say five, right?"

"Julio, relax," Stewart chuckled, rolling his eyes as he glanced to his own watch, "Waylon will be here soon."

"Jeah, well," Julio snippily retorted, folding his arms across his chest and tossing one leg over the other, "he'd better be. He said he had something really important to tell me-,"

"Ahem! _Us_."

"Jeah, jeah, whatever – about Mr. Burns."

"Ooh," Stewart oozed, his brow quirking suggestively, "I hope it's something juicy."

"Stewart," the taller of the two spoke through gnashed teeth, shooting a slow-burning glare in the other's direction, "shut up."

Offended and somewhat hurt, Stewart lifted a finger and started to defend himself, his actions cut short by the creaking of a door and Julio springing up from the chest's lid. The pursed frown etched into Stewart's face immediately curled skyward into a giddy smile when he caught a glimpse of Waylon entering the room.

"Thanks for meeting me here on such short notice, Julio," Waylon acknowledged, oblivious to the third-party sitting on the opposite side of the room.

"Of course, no problem," Julio impatiently gushed before fluctuating the conversation away from pleasantries. He pressed an arm around the other's broad shoulders, eyes burning with inquiry and lips forming into their usual smirk. "So-oo-oo? What this big news jew were talking about over the phone, huh?"

"Well, he didn't fire me," Waylon beamed, strolling toward the opposite side of the room and taking a seat atop the vanities ottoman.

"Aw! That's so wonderful to hear!" Stewart abruptly burst, interjecting with an excitement that mirrored a young child's. "Oh, Waylon, I cannot tell you how sorry I am for almost get-,"

A balance of shock and umbrage filled the other's eyes as they drifted to Stewart, glaring with memories of how the fiasco had begun. Waylon adjusted his glasses, fingers fumbling with the wiry frames, and felt his stomach churn at the unforeseen party.

"Stewart? What are you doing here?"

"Oh, um, I just came by to pick up my costume. The other guys thought it would be better if I played an extra instead of running the ticket booth," the shortest of the three admitted with a blush of guilt stretching along his face. "But, then I saw Julio standing outside – locked himself out again, can you believe it?! – and, luckily, I still have my key-,"

"Jes, jes," Julio irritably interrupted as he clasped his hand firmly over Stewart's mouth, "he doesn't need to know to know all that. Anyway," he coughed and refocused his attention on the situation that was at hand, "jew already told me that on the phone."

A strong rouge dusted along Waylon's cheeks for a moment, hardly recalling what he'd even spoken about throughout the short phone call. He gave a nervous titter, "oh, did I? Sorry, I guess I was just so excited."

"Jew can say that again. Now, spill the beans – what's the big news?"

"Alright," he continued after drawing a calming breath, his grin stretching from one ear to the other, "you guys know that new musical I've been working on?"

Managing to break free of Julio's grasp for a brief moment, Stewart chimed in, "you mean the one we advertised on all the playbills to help you get a producer?"

Waylon simply nodded, his jaw aching from the glowing Cheshire smile straining his face, "right. Anyway, Mr. Burns has agreed to be produce the show-,"

"That's amaz-,"

"- _if_ I can pull off an amazing performance in this week's show."

Julio abruptly mirrored the wide grin sprawled along his friend's radiant face, his hands sliding from restraining Stewart and embracing together, "jew mean jou're still going to be our Ophelia?"

Waylon brazenly snickered and nodded once again, mocking a line from their well-rehearsed script, "you are merry, my lord."

* * *

"Be yourself; everyone else is already taken."

― Oscar Wilde


	12. The Show Must Go On

"Above all, don't lie to yourself.

The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others.

And having no respect he ceases to love."

― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

* * *

Chapter Twelve

The Show Must Go On

The night of the show had arrived in a whirlwind, all days before it now a blur. There were no memories of anything before it and no thoughts of anything beyond it; there was only the moment itself, and Waylon was okay with that (it gave him less to worry about).

He had once again found himself shadowed by Julio, who was busily recreating the starlet from weeks ago. Julio tutted, wanting everything in its place and perfectly so. He balanced a makeup palate in one hand, while the other held a series of brushes, and he clutched an array of bobby pins betwixt his teeth.

Using his tongue to push the pins aside, he spoke, "have jew heard anyt'ing from Monty?"

Just as his lips formed to respond, Waylon was dusted with powder, tainting his tongue with the taste of talc. A brief expression of annoyance fizzled into an anxious half-grin, and he nodded before answering, "yeah… he said that he and some higher-up producer will be here around seven."

"Good!" Julio exclaimed in a relived sigh, glancing to his watch to find they had a few hours still. "I should have jew ready for the stage by then."

The conversation trailed into silence, the only sounds being that of airbrush machines and high heels. Julio twisted Waylon around, back facing the artist, and tugged the strings of the unlaced corset. Waylon groaned and winced for a moment before adjusting his breath to the confines. He slid a hand around his back, resting it over the other man's to stop the tightening, and he cleared his throat, "uh, I thi-ink that's tight enough."

"Do jew want to look 'authentic' or not?"

Waylon fell mum, which Julio used as an opportunity to yank the strings that much tighter. The olive-skinned man beamed as the muscular body was compressed into a shapely hourglass. While the taller of the two scowled, Julio smirked and twisted Waylon to face him once again.

"Now," Julio continued, tugging a box to his side and pushing off the lid. "Was that really so bad? Hmm?"

Waylon rolled his eyes, moving to cross his arms across his chest only for Julio to swat them away.

"Ugh, what now?" Smithers growled, resorting to propping his hands on the newly-accentuated hips.

"I have to put on jour," Julio flitted into a light chuckle as he lifted the prosthetic bosoms from the box, rolling the silicone over his fingers, " _ahem_."

A gruff sigh broke from the corset, but Waylon remained still and allowed the transformation. The only time he made any movement was if the other tugged him one way or another; otherwise, he kept a rigid stance.

A subtle chill hit his chest as the prosthetic breasts created feminine bumps against his own, and a recoil found his face as they were further secured by another corset, which was thin enough to wrap around the chest without layering the other garment. Another spritz of ice caused a shiver down his spine as airbrushes of makeup were layered atop the silicone peaks.

His eyes, which were suddenly robbed of their glasses, turned toward the dressing room door at every footstep from beyond it. It wasn't until Julio firmly grasped his chin and held him in place that Waylon abandoned the view of the door and began gnawing his lip to sate his nerves instead.

"Uh, Julio?"

"Jeah?"

He sighed, taking a moment to debate retracting his question, but eventually pressed on, "do you think I even have a shot at this?" He caught a glimpse of confusion on the opposite's face and corrected himself, "with the musical, I mean… I… I've kind of given up on the, err, other dream."

"Jew mean Burns?"

"Gah!"

* * *

Nerves and vomit clutched the backside of his throat as his feet inched closer toward the stage. His mind was burning, screaming as thoughts shot like wildfire from one crevasse to another. Each thought was shooting anxiety toward his knees, seemingly turning bone to gelatin, and his walk became increasingly wobbly.

"Oh, what was I thinking?" Waylon rambled to himself, a hand absentmindedly tugging at a strand of the shoulder-length wig. "This was a huge mistake."

"Jew can say that again," Julio chimed in, rushing to the other, and promptly swatted at the hand that twirled the faux-locks, "jew could've messed up jour hair! I worked really hard on tha-,"

"Not that!" Smithers shot, the heated anxiety crawling up his throat and causing his hand to travel to his stomach. "This," he continued, his voice tapering as he tried to ward off the impending bile. "This whole play thing. I can barely stand now; how the hell am I going to actually go out there?"

Julio shrugged, his smug attitude lining Waylon's panic with anger. The Cuban cleared his throat and ignored the glare, speaking as he adjusted his own costume and prepared to step onto the stage, "I don't know, but jew better figure it out fast, _Ophelia_."

The glare remained plastered to the backside of Julio's skull until he and the rest of the stage was cloaked with velvet. Waylon's fingers curled around the soured fabric, his breath held captive behind the corset as he desperately searched for an emergency exit. Had he found one, however, he wasn't completely certain he would have taken it.

"Maybe..." he uttered to himself, a hopeful smile curling to his ruby-red lips, "maybe Mr. Burns didn't even show up. He was probably just testing me… yeah, yeah, that's it. He just told me he'd be here so I'd make a fool out of myself, and then he'd feel a lot better about falling for that whole Maribelle Stacey thi-,"

"Ahem! I said—He poisons him i' the garden for's estate. His name's Gonzago: the story is extant, and writ in choice Italian: you shall see anon how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago's wife."

A swear broke from betwixt her teeth before Ophelia pushed her way through the curtain, stepping onto the stage. Her presence was brought forth with power, though most of it was driven by crippling anxiety, and her voice was strong only because it was on the cusp of a panic attack, "the king rises!"

With his heart pounding to the point of rupturing, Waylon forced Ophelia along the stage, approaching Hamlet with the proper expression for the role, but coupled with a plea in bright eyes. Those shimmering eyes darted toward the audience and then back to Hamlet, non-verbally asking if one king in particular was somewhere amongst the crowd.

In a silent code, Julio fluttered an eye and tossed his gaze in the proper direction of the audience and Waylon's followed the path. He retreated instantly into Ophelia as Burns gave a mousey wave before turning to speak with another prolific man, and Ophelia absorbed any jitters and converted them into stage-perfect energy.

* * *

A mere moment had passed from being on to being off stage, and Waylon's shoulders slumped. His hands were quick to fly toward the bobby pins in his wig, yearning to be rid of all signs of Ophelia.

"Thank God that's over. I can't believe he actually showed uh-,"

A fragile yelp caught in his throat as Burns and the unknown man were already standing backstage, awaiting the other. Waylon's hand stopped plucking at one of the pins and instantly began that nervous twirling of brunette curls.

"Oh, aha, you're, uh, you're here already. I thought I would have time to change into something more… appropriate…?"

"Oho, nonsense," Burns boomed with a giddy, yet clearly forced laugh as he snaked toward the curvy figure, slinking an arm around the hourglass, "you did wonderful, my darling Maribelle."

"W-well, thank you, si-," Waylon had begun with a relaxed smile before instantly tensing at the name. "Wait… what did you just call me?"

The superior mocked his former laugh and squeezed the cinched waist tighter, "don't be so modest, Maribelle," he then turned to the producer and added, "she's so shy about our little pet names; bad luck for show business and all that, you know?"

The man simply nodded, a firm grin stretching over his plump face. He approached the woman, extending a hand for a shake as he greeted her, "yes, yes! It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Stacey. Burnsie here has told me many wonderful things. Judging by that performance, I'd have to say he was right about you being quite the starlet."

"Ms. Stacey?" Waylon whispered to himself before feeling the sharp prod of an elbow in his ribs. Instinctively, he straightened himself and gave a submissive glance to Monty. Maribelle placed her hand in the producers', the sweaty palm causing her to recoil just slightly and her smile to become askew. "Oh, um, ri-right… I'm just so glad that you've found interest in my screenplay."

"Quite, quite!"

"Sir," a squeaky voice beckoned to the plump man from the exit, "your limo's here."

"Yes, thank you," he called to his pimply, teenaged assistant, and then gave Maribelle and Monty a final nod in ado, "I'm afraid my ride's arrived. Tell you what, Monty, bring your lovely lady here to dinner at my place this weekend. We can discuss that wonderful screenplay of hers then. Well then, cheerio!"

* * *

Stunned silence had stolen Waylon's voice for most of the hour after the producer had departed. He was sitting backstage, still clad in his feminine attire, with Monty pacing the floor and rambling about how the new relationship would skyrocket him back into some form of fame.

The rambling was distant, a veil of smog that grew thicker until Waylon's entire mind was shadowed with emotion. He clutched the sides of the prop box he was sitting on, finally unable to hold his tongue as the handles turned his knuckles white, "augh, what the hell were you thinking?!"

* * *

"Be careful what you water your dreams with.

Water them with worry and fear and you will produce weeds that choke the life from your dream."

― Lao Tzu


	13. Behind the Scenes

"After a certain point, a heart with so many stress fractures can never be anything but broken."

― Jodi Picoult, Salem Falls

* * *

Chapter Thirteen

Behind the Scenes

"Oh, stop with all the theatrics, Waylon," Burns shushed, nonchalantly approaching the other and taking a seat next to him atop the chest. "You're not on stage anymore."

"Then why are you still calling me Maribelle, hmm? If you want me to stop acting, maybe you should do so yourself, sir."

Burns' eyes sparked with a conflicting mixture of offense and excited shock. He chuckled lowly, icily as he lowered his head and placed a hand atop Waylon's shoulder. "I must say, Smithers, you have more manhood in a dress than you ever had in that old suit of yours. Perhaps you like being Maribelle a little more than you think? Gives you courage… doesn't she?"

The cheeky smirk and chilling glare shot by the elder caused Waylon's heart to freeze. His chest began to ache, causing him to grasp at the throbs only to get a handful of silicone. A groan ripped from behind the false-breasts and he hastily snatched them from behind the lace trimmings. Tossing the prosthetic bosoms to the floor earned him a more sinister glance in return.

"Come now, Smithers," Burns continued, his talon-like fingers clawing firmly into the exposed portions of the opposite's shoulder, "you and I both know this is nothing more than business. If you want to make it in this type of career, you have to learn to stretch the truth a little. It's a cutthroat industry, Smithers – dog eat dog, and whatnot."

Waylon scowled, gently tugging his shoulder away from his boss' grip, causing faint claw marks to appear from the elder's sharp grasp. "I've stretched the truth for you my whole life," he spat in a whisper, standing and walking toward the dressing room. His eyes darkened when Burns shadowed him. "Mr. Burns, please! I just want to get out of this dress, go home, and-,"

"And forget about all this Maribelle Stacy nonsense? Forget all of this ever happened? Yes, well, don't think that isn't what I wanted when all this first came to light. I'll have you know I felt like a fool!"

"What do you think I felt like just then? You must not feel that badly about it, considering you still called me Maribelle. You treated me like I was your girlfriend or your wife."

"Yes, and you should be grateful for that; I've given you a lesson in how acting should be done properly."

Julio, having overheard the ruckus from the opposite side of the dressing room, creaked open the door and peered at the scene. A faint smirk brushed across his face when Waylon, who'd been standing at the door with a limp grip on the knob, jumped backward with a surprised gasp. The smirk, however, died quickly and was reborn as a concerned grin. His eyes flicked from Waylon to Burns, noticing the tension and feeling it curling around his own neck.

"Um," he interposed sheepishly, stepping out of the doorway and placing a hand atop Waylon's shoulder, "Waylon, could I speak with jew for a minute?" It was a tactic and Waylon knew it, but the look that suddenly marred Burns' face revealed he knew it, too. Burns skittered toward the two men, standing in the doorway, and his very presence forced the other two into the dressing room. Julio folded his arms with a sour face. "Ah, I meant with _just_ Waylon."

Burns scoffed and folded his arms across his chest, propping a shoulder against the doorway, and sneered, "and what? Miss out on all the fun? I should think not. Please, if you're going to be talking about me, I feel I have a right to listen as well."

"Jeah, but-,"

"Julio," Waylon surrendered, his head lowering and eyes darkening as they adverted toward the floor, "don't bother. There's no talking to him. Just… just let him in so you can get me out of this damn dress and I can go home."

"But, Waylon," Julio had begun before Burns' icy stare and Waylon's pitiful, pleading eyes deflated his lungs and caused him to sigh. "Alright, fine, whatever." He kept his hand on Waylon's shoulder, ushering him deeper into the dressing room as Burns' shadow lingered a mere step behind. Once they were all settled, he noticed the missing prosthetic breasts when his hand had gone to remove them. "Uh, where are jour breasts?"

Burns couldn't stifle a sarcastic laugh as he took a seat atop a prop chest, slinging one lanky leg over the other. "It seems Maribelle isn't as busty as she once was, eh – err, Julio, is it?" A bitter expression tainted his face, an odd look of hurt wavering within his eyes, to which Waylon fretted further. "Oh! That's right, that's because she's no she at all. How silly of me!"

"Sir, please."

"Please, what, Smithers?"

Smithers fell silent, his head wilting to the point that it nearly rested atop Julio's shoulder. The other actor took notice of the anguish and chucked his knuckles beneath Waylon's chin, forcing the head upward again. Julio gave an apologetic gaze before forcing a small smile. "Jes, well, I'll just take that as a compliment," he smugly tossed toward Burns while simultaneously slipping down Waylon's dress, "I do take my art very seriously."

"Indeed," the response from the elder was cold, "and you'd better keep up the fine work; Maribelle and I have a very important arrangement this weekend, and I can't turn up with… _this_." He pointed to Waylon, who stood in little more than undergarments and corset, his wig missing, and his male form far more obvious.

Offended and embarrassed, Waylon bit his lip; he longed to slash resentful words and profanities, but his heart had crawled into his throat and stolen his vocal cords. His head then lowered completely and rested in the crook of Julio's neck. However, just as his forehead had made contact, he was gently nudged away, and a curious fear consumed him for a moment. The moment of fear was then replaced with slight admiration as he watched the Julio approach the elder.

Julio gestured for Burns to stand from the prop chest, pushing against the pointed shoulders and escorted the man toward the exit. "Don't worry," he dryly stated with a note of choler in his voice, "I'll have jour Maribelle ready for jew tomorrow. But, for now, I have to help _Waylon_ out of _his_ corset, and jew wouldn't want to be here for that, now would jew, Mr. Burns? Seeing how she isn't a she, as jew put it." The final bit was spoken with a smile and a sarcastic overlay.

Having fully understood the Cuban's intentions, Burns gave a weak nod and let his eyes travel to Waylon. He cleared his throat, adjusted his tie, and sternly warned, "be ready by eight o' clock sharp on Saturday, or don't bother with me again at all."

Waylon grumbled as he used a tissue to smudge off his lipstick rather than daub the tears that had begun to form along the false-lashes, "yes, sir."

Once Burns was shut out of the room and his footsteps were heard heading toward the exit of the theater, Julio's smirk twisted into frustration and his steps were a tad heavier as he approached his friend. His hands didn't fall to the corset as he had said, but to the bare shoulders, which he gripped firmly. His face became as firm as his grip as his eyes made connection with Waylon's. "Waylon, just what in the hell do jew see in him?" He snatched the other man's glasses from the makeup table (where they'd been placed before the show), holding them and pretending to examine them. "I swear," he said as he turned the frames between his fingers, "I think these things are broken, because jew are clearly blind."

"Oh… shut up, Julio..." Waylon weakly snapped, snatching his glasses and returning them to the bridge of his nose.

* * *

Hours had transpired since the show had ended, yet Waylon and Julio hadn't parted. Waylon found himself sitting on Julio's couch, eyes tracing the room as he impatiently waited for the other to return from the kitchen.

"Okay," the apartment's owner finally grunted as he returned from the kitchen, handing his friend a mug of coffee as he sat next to him. Julio took a swig from his own mug and settled into the couch, shifting to better examine Waylon. "I'm thinking… burgundy. Jes, definitely burgundy."

"Burgundy? Burgundy what?"

"For jour next outfit," Julio further explained, his eyes roaming Waylon's body. "Maybe a nice tan skirt? What do jew think?"

Waylon paused for a moment, took a sip from his mug and cringed at the stale coffee, and then slumped his shoulders. "I think this is a bad idea."

"Jew don't like it? I think jew you'd look cute in- oh!" Julio cried when the statement finally registered in its proper context. "Oh, jew mean the whole dinner thing?"

"No, I meant your choice of coffee. Of course that's what I mean!"

When Julio's body retracted, Waylon heaved a breath and apologized in a mutter. He pinched the bridge of his nose, massaging the area, and shoved his glasses atop his head.

"So-oo-o…? Why don't jew just call and cancel?"

"You heard what Burns said; he'll fire me."

"Again, so-oo-o…? Jew'd be better off without that silly job anyway, if jew ask me. Jew seemed so much happier without it."

"I..." Waylon froze, taken aback by the statement and the memories it triggered. And, just as he did each time his emotions ran high, he shut down and curled into himself. "I don't want to talk about this."

Julio simply rolled his eyes, having expected the other's stubbornness. "I had a feeling jew would say that. Fine, don't listen to me," he continued with a nonchalant shrug, "jou're obviously going to go to that dinner anyway; so, let's get back to what I was saying before – burgundy or no?"

A sigh and a monotone groan, "sure. Why not? It's not like it's going to matter to Burns what I'm wearing as long as I have a nice set of tits in it."

* * *

"Transformation is my favorite game and in my experience, anger and frustration are the result of you not being authentic somewhere in your life or with someone in your life.

Being fake about anything creates a block inside of you.

Life can't work for you if you don't show up as you."

― Jason Mraz


	14. The Beginning of the End

"If I didn't think, I'd be much happier; if I didn't have any sex organs, I wouldn't waver on the brink of nervous emotion and tears all the time."

― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

* * *

Chapter Fourteen

The Beginning of the End

Communication had been scarce and strained as dominoes continued to fall. Julio managed to stifle a laugh at Waylon's comment, but it did little to mask the smirk. Greeted with a glare, Julio allowed his smug expression to fade, and he arose from the couch. He approached the other, clapping a hand on a broad shoulder.

"I think that can be arranged," he countered, hoping to lighten the mood, but backfiring as he was met with an even icier glower. He cleared his throat and continued, "Waylon, jew need to relax. Jou're so tense." He pressed his fingers into the base of the other's neck, massaging the area before being shrugged away.

Waylon sighed, "I'm fine. Can we just get this over with so I can home?"

"Fine, have it jou're way."

The glaze of hurt disguised as indifference sent a short wave of regret through Waylon, furthering their strained chats. Julio, however, recovered rather quickly and began heading down the hall of his apartment; he beckoned for the other to follow.

"C'mon," he grumbled, "jew can help me pick out jour accessories."

* * *

The night of the dinner had reared its head all too soon. Static settled in Smither's stomach, his heart threatening to join it. He stood in front of the mirror of the dressing room, unsure of which he hated more – himself or that damn theater. The time for decisions was brief, as Julio had once again began fussing over him.

"Stop wiggling!"

"I'm not wiggling."

"Well, jou're not holding still, that's for sure," Julio spat, frustrated by the rush and Smither's unwillingness to cooperate. The Cuban man tugged roughly at the ties on the back of the corset, hoping to cinch the waist to as feminine a form as possible. Just as the article had clenched to his liking, the laces tugged from his fingers and partially unlaced themselves. This was the consequence of Waylon's subconscious trembling. "Waylon!" Julio scolded, instantly and forcefully redoing the work. "I can't work like this. Why are jew so jittery? There's nothing for jew to worry about, it's only Mr. Burns."

Waylon scoffed, shuddering as his spine was compressed. He bit back a groan of pain, waiting for his breath to return before speaking, "ea-asy for you to say. And, it's not just Mr. Burns, remember? That big-shot producer's going to be there, too." That's when his knees buckled (much to Julio's agitation) and he went slightly light-headed. "Oh God, I don't think I can do this."

"Rela-,"

"What if the producer catches on? What if he asks questions about me – err, Maribelle – and Burns' relationship?"

"Waylon-,"

"Wha-what if-?"

"Waylon! Pull jourself together," Julio snapped as he moved to stand before the opposite. He tilted his head then adjusted the silicone peaks that peered above the lace of the corset. Once satisfied, he collected the burgundy top he'd brought to the theater and handed it to Waylon, taking a moment to glance at his own wristwatch. "Now, put on jour outfit before Burns shows up. Jew only have, like, ten minutes."

Scorned by time and the general situation, Waylon reluctantly did as he was told, slipping the lacy top over his exaggerated frame. He smoothed the hem, covering it with the waistband of the beige skirt he was then handed. A single glance in the mirror caused him to cringe in disgust; the beauty in the reflection no more than an ugly lie, and he sighed.

"Well," he grumbled, shoulders wilting as the rose of his facade began to wither, "the show must go on, I suppose..."

As Julio worked to tidy the makeup counter, Waylon began searching for a proper pair of shoes. The two completed their tasks in awkward silence, each able to sense the words hanging from the other's tongue. The tension, however, was snuffed out when a knock at the door managed to cut through it. The stress lifted only to the ceiling, looming overhead and watching the twisted play unfold below, waiting to strike again.

"I'll get it," Julio offered as he noticed his friend still busily searching for footwear. He strolled toward the door, prying it open with a forced smile. "Hello, Mr. Burns," he droned in mock-joy, "so nice to see jew again. Have jew lost weight?"

"Enough with the pleasantries," the elderly man rasped as he elbowed his way into the room. "Ah, Smithers," he greeted with a sly grin, "just the man-," eyes examined the figure, "aha, I use that term loosely – I wanted to see. Ready for our little business endeavor?"

Waylon's eyes narrowed, a smokey gray dressing his eyelids. He shook off the boiling anger that seized his heart and cleared his throat, "gee, sir, and here I was thinking this was a date."

"Oho, Smithers, as much as I appreciate your wit, I'd suggest you drop the sarcasm," Monty chortled before his voice carried a cold, warning note. "Any-who, as I was saying, you're ready, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir, I'm just trying to find my shoes."

A sharp laugh and tut followed, "just like a woman to keep a man waiting."

Waylon scowled, hiding the snarl by burying himself in the costume chest, only resurfacing when he had shoes in hand and a simmering smile upon his made-up face.

* * *

The tension from the dressing room had shadowed the phoney couple, taking a seat betwixt them in the back of the limousine. Waylon's head was lowered, his face hidden behind the synthetic brunette curls, and his eyes were glued to the floorboard. Burns, on the other hand, wasn't as consumed with the uncomfortable atmosphere, and pushed the plan forward.

"Alright, Smithers, you know the drill," he said sternly, placing a hand atop Waylon's shoulder. "The moment we step foot in that house, you're no longer my assistant, but my partner. Understood? Oh, and no calling me sir tonight; it's too formal to-,"

"I understand… _Monty_."

"That's a good girl."

A long, exasperated groan rumbled in Waylon's chest. He slumped further toward the floorboard, resting his forehead against the back of the passengers' seat. In that moment, he made the decision proposed in the theater – he hated himself far more than he did his dressing room.

* * *

Lavish decorations soon replaced the interior of the vehicle as the two were escorted down a winding hall toward the dining room of the producer's mansion. The stout man waddled ahead of them, blathering about all the paintings that lined the walls.

"And this was the battle of-," the man then paused before bursting into laughter and turning to face the couple. "Oh, now where are my manners? Terribly sorry! I'm sure you two are far more interested in discussing that nice, little screenplay of yours, hmm, Ms. Stacey?"

Still consumed by acidic anxities, Waylon failed to acknowledge the man. It wasn't until a sharp elbow dug into his ribcage that he was brought back to reality.

"Ahem, Maribelle, dear," Monty spoke through gritted teeth, a warning grin curving his mouth. He snaked an arm about Maribelle's waist, tugging her close. "I believe this nice gentlemen was asking you a question."

"Oh? Oh! Oh, right, the play, of course… s-silly me."

"You'll have to excuse Maribelle," Monty continued as he was escorted to a chair at the oversized dinner table. "Sometimes she lets her little fantasies just carry her away, aha."

As the two older men delved into a conversation, Maribelle pinned her gaze upon her empty plate, while Waylon felt his ego bruise at the cryptic jab.

* * *

"Worry is the interest you pay on a debt you may not owe."

― Keith Caserta, Soul Searching


	15. The Final Act

"The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off."

― Joe Klaas, Twelve Steps to Happiness

* * *

Chapter Fifteen

The Final Act

Despite sitting in such close proximity to the others, Marbielle seemed drastically distant. Her brunette curls concealed part of her face, which hadn't arose from staring at the plate despite it having been filled before her eyes, and her mind was clearly more gone than her gaze. Her hands rested still in her lap, while the inner workings of Waylon could only attempt to process the situation. He was perhaps the most distant, tucked away in the mind of his own creation.

He trialed hundreds of scenarios in his mind, wondering how he'd shed this feminine skin for good. As the figurative hallucinations gnawed deeper into his psyche, Maribelle felt another rough thrust to her side. She absently expressed a low groan and rolled her eyes, correcting herself when her lifted gaze rediscovered the two men.

"Are you," Burns began with a sickening tone of false concern, "feeling alright, my dear? You seem a bit anxious." The phoney grin melted, turning the man's lips into a thin slash. "Not worried about losing your job, are you?" An icy smile flickered back into life, a sarcastic chortle following suit.

The cryptic messages dug through the flesh of Maribelle's skin until reaching Waylon's mind, where they weighed heavily. However, despite the dazed look dressing Maribelle's face, the messages seemed to have a different result on the producer.

The pudgy man choked down what food he had been shoveling into his mouth, crudely swigging the leftovers down with wine. He shook his head and raised a finger, biding time until he could properly swallow and speak. "Don't be preposterous, Monty," he boomed in a joking manner, "this little lady has a very promising chance, I'd say. The screenplay she's written is actually quite brilliant."

"Really?" Monty questioned, his expression wavering into genuine shock. "Do tell."

A booming laugh came from the man at the head of the table. "Oh, Monty, you old coot, you haven't changed a bit. How impatient you are! We have plenty of time to talk business, but for now, let us all just enjoy a friendly dinner, hmm?"

"Ah, yes, and you haven't changed either – unless you should count the size of that ever-expanding gullet of yours."

Another roar of laughter erupted, despite the counter being fired with a chill. Maribelle shook her head in disapproval, shrinking into her seat and clasping her head with her fingertips. In spite of being an attempt to recoil and avoiding notice, both elderly men stared with confusion.

"I say," the producer rumbled with an air of concern, "are you not feeling well, Ms. Stacy? You look a bit ill."

"Yes," Burns hissed, sliding a hand to the woman's shoulder with a commanding squeeze, "are you alright, darling? Would you like some water?" He turned in his seat to yell at one of the other man's servants. "Stop lazing around, you incompetent boob, and get my ravishing Maribelle here a drink!"

"I'm fine!" Maribelle shrilled, pressing her fingertips into her temples, ignoring the scrapes of the fake nails. She heaved a sigh, her body slumping, bosom accidentally pressing into the plate and her blouse becoming stained with gravies and sauces. "Son of a-," she started to curse before feeling the stunned eyes that were focused on her. A layer of frustrated tears filled her eyes as she arose from the table. "I'm so sorry, it's just… this is a new blouse – oh, what am I saying?! Ugh! Could you please just tell me where the restroom is?"

"Ah, yes, of course," the homeowner happily obliged, beckoning to his assistant with a wag of a finger. "Um, you there, boy, would you be so kind as to show our lovely house guest to the washroom?"

The acne-littered face of the teenage boy lifted to view the woman. His eyes held a flicker of dopey, boyhood hormones, and his mouth fell ajar long before any actual words came forth. "Su-sure thing! Right this way, miss."

The squeaky-voiced lad extended a bent elbow, uneasily awaiting the woman to lock arms with him. It wasn't until a dark glint in Burns' eyes met with the boy's that the gesture was dropped. The assistant slipped his hands into the pockets of his uniform, anxiously twisting his head in the opposite direction. "Err, I mean, fo-follow me, ma'am."

"Yeah," Maribelle trailed off quietly, returning her own glare at Burns, "thanks."

* * *

Led by the jittery adolescent, Maribelle stumbled her way through the expansive corridor, her choice of footwear disagreeing with the shag carpeting. The boy took notice of this, overhearing the annoyed grunts and partially-spat swears coming from behind him. He peered over his shoulder, then took in the scenery to watch for the sinister glare of Burns; when he noticed they were out of sight of the dining hall, he once again offered a shaky elbow.

"H-here, let me he-help you…?" It sounded more of a question. A questioning smile exposing metal brackets, a mixture of sweat and grease beading the skin around it, both confused Maribelle and amused Waylon. The man hidden within the charade inwardly smirked, shaking his head as memories of his own braces and awkward teenage years flooded him.

"Sure," Maribelle tittered, linking arms with the boy. The younger of the two soon took notice of just how stained the blouse had become.

"Gee, I'm real sorry about your blouse, miss."

The lady shrugged, laughing as she reexamined the mess. "It's fine, really. I'm sure I've got some stain remover somewhere in my-," she had begun cheerfully, her tone dwindling when she realized her purse had been left behind. "… purse."

"Something wrong?"

"It's nothing, I just left my purse back at the table. I should probably go back and get it-,"

Much like the plays that had led up to the current fiasco, another actor entered promptly on cue. Monty stalked along the hall, fast approaching his date and the house-worker. Clutched in his hand was the strap of the brown-leather purse, and he waved the item around for emphasis.

"Oh, Maribelle, sweetums," he cooed in a strained tone once reaching the others. "It seems you've left your purse-," he froze, his expression dropping as he shooed off the assistant, "get your hands off her, you slimy, little-,"

"Monty!" Maribelle piped up, stern shock in her voice. Her eyes narrowed upon him as she walked over toward him, taking the purse onto her shoulder and slipping her arms around Burns' slight frame. "He was only trying to help… _dear_. But," she continued, shifting her focus onto the boy and giving him a gentle grin, "I think I can find my own way from here."

The boy nodded, his eyes unable to leave Burns' sharp facial feature, and stumbled back toward the dining hall. "Aha, ri-right. Well, err, it's the next door to your left. Good day to you, Mr. Burns, sir."

"Good day, indeed," Monty huffed, diligently watching until the helper was out of sight. With a sense of security (albeit with a grain of paranoia), he tugged his supposed date toward the restroom, pulling her with surprising force into the room before shutting the door with the equal power. "Smithers," he barked in a paranoid rustle, firmly gripping the man's shoulders. "What in blaze's sake do you think you're doing? Getting chummy with that-,"

"I'm sorry?" Smithers sarcastically interrupted, an aggravated simper skewing his lips. "You must have me confused with someone else. I'm Maribelle, remember?" Dropping the cynicism, he pressed, "why, sir, do I detect a note of jealousy?"

"Bah! I could care less of what men you go off gallivanting with in your free time, Waylon. That was merely for show; keeping up appearances and whatnot. No, I'm only saying that you should be more careful. Teenage lads like him might not have seen many, but they can eventually see what's real and what isn't," Burns dully ranted, poking a finger against the silicone breasts beneath the blouse and swiping the food's residue onto a towel draped over the sink. "And the way he's been eying those, he could begin catching on any minute now."

"You're being ridiculous," Waylon countered, his pent up frustrations overshadowing his normally timid nature toward Burns. "I had you fooled in much more revealing clothes than this. Look, just help me clean up this mess."

"Pardon? Oho, how long have you known me, Smithers? You're a big boy, surely you can tidy yourself."

Waylon rolled his eyes, the contacts beginning to grow more irritating by the sheer fact of the lies they carried, before narrowing them at the elder. "A big boy? Well, as I recall, Monty, from the moment we stepped foot in this house, I was a good _girl_. And," he commenced, snatching a cloth from the sink and passing it to Burns, "ladies shouldn't have to get their hands dirty."

Burns scoffed, smirking at the sudden spark in his assistant's defiance. "Ah, I see what you're doing. Wanting to make me pay a little for dragging you here, hmm? Well, keep in mind, Smithers, that that screenplay of yours would have gone little further than the trash heap had I not stepped in."

The jab smarted worse than Waylon had anticipated, his witty tongue abruptly faltering. His psyche started to descend back into submission, but froze somewhere between himself and Maribelle. The balance between the two encouraging him to retaliate.

"Monty, please," he slyly gushed in the slightly higher tone he used for Maribelle's speech. "Is this any way to treat a lady?"

"I'm warning you, Smithers."

"Who?"

The curious fun had dimmed, as Burns was growing annoyed with the insistant objections. Scowling and grumbling, he snatched the cloth from the other and tossed it to the floor.

"Alright, if that's how you want to play, from this point forward, we're going to be the most sickeningly loving couple since George and Martha Washington."

Waylon cocked a brow, a moment of befuddlement ruining his character, "but, sir, George Washing-,"

Burns interrupted with a tut, pressing a talon-like finger to the other's lips. "Now, now, _Maribelle, "_ sir" is such a formal term for lovers such as ourselves."

As a wave of involuntary electricity sent a shiver down Waylon's spine, he bit back his own twisted desires and firmly readjusted the shield of Maribelle. She pulled away, sighing as she rummaged through the purse and withdrew a stain-removing pen. An uncomfortable hush cramped the room as the actions took place, the minutes stretching beyond time itself.

"Oh, please!" Burns impatiently shot into the air, chasing away the silence and causing Maribelle to flinch. "Those things are useless, you'll only make it worse. What you need is good, old-fashioned soap and water."

"Well, in all fairness, I did try to hand you a rag before you threw it on the-,"

The abrupt sound of footsteps from the opposite side of the door caused a panicked Monty to clamp a hand over Maribelle's mouth, effectively snuffing out her comment. He shushed against her ear, wide eyes threatening to bore a hole through the door. "Shush, I think someone is just outside the door."

Maribelle rolled her eyes, the warning thoroughly exhausting both her and Waylon. Her hand slid to Monty's wrist, shoving the delicate hand from her mouth; the mirror revealed smudged lipstick as consequence.

"Damn it, Monty, you smudged my makeup."

It was then that a familiar boom of laughter penetrated the door, leaving a sour taste on Monty and Maribelle's tongues. A pounding followed the laughter, chased by the producer's voice, "well now, aren't you a couple of scamps? You know, Monty, one generally finishes their dinner before tucking into dessert."

Tossing aside whatever embarrassment may have been, the couple emerged from the washroom. Monty held his head high with a smug expression, clapping a hand onto the squishy shoulder of his old friend, "what can I say? Even someone as disciplined as myself can only resist such beauty for so long."

The producer snickered with a blush and shy, yet devious grin, "you little devil. I say, I certainly wish I knew your secret for hooking such a beautiful and talented woman as Ms. Stacy."

"Yes, well, we can't all be as charming as Montgomery Burns, can we?"

The two older gentlemen shared joint laughter before returning their attentions to the woman. Burns approached her, playfully swatting the hidden padding beneath the skirt, and craned an arm around the hourglass frame. He doted a few sweet nothings aloud, enjoying how the producer ate the scene from the palm of his hand, and planted a strangely confident kiss upon his date's cheek.

In that moment, Waylon felt himself break, transcending into an encore of the night at the restaurant. He did as he'd done on that night, forcefully breaking away from the affections and panicking like a fool.

"Okay, that's enough!"

"Yes, Monty, you'll further smudge her makeup."

Waylon shot a sharp stare at the man, quickly sobering the producer's zealous personality. The stout man shrunk, taking a few steps back toward the dining hall. This provided no comfort to Waylon, however, who coldly stated, "that's not what I meant. Monty, can I have a word with you… alone?"

The producer jumped, his laughter now a string of nervous titters, and he kneaded the back of his neck. "Oh, of course! My apologies. You two carry on with… whatever it is you were doing. I'll be going to take another look over that screenplay."

* * *

Burns' face was soured with animosity as he was tugged back into the restroom. He crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot hastily against the floor. "What in creation was that pitiful excuse for a performance? I was perfectly in character."

"Stop-,"

"I shall do no such thing. Honestly, Smithers, I'm starting to believe you're just as baffling as a real woman. First, you insist on me showering Maribelle with affection, and now you're upset because of it."

"Mr. Burns," Waylon strained through gritted teeth, unsure whether it was an attempt to sound tough or one not to cry, "I'm exhausted with this whole thing. I can't keep up with being two different people. Please, I – _we –_ need to come clean."

"What are you saying? Don't you see, Waylon? This is all nothing more than a big performance, an acting lesson, if you will. No harm in a few extra rehearsals."

"No harm?" Waylon gave in a shuddering gasp, tears pooling at the ends of the false lashes. His eyes reddened as the salty water and heavy makeup products burned the whites to scarlet. The particles of eyeliner and shadow worked their way beneath the contacts, to which Waylon reacted by haphazardly removing them and slinging them from finger to floor. "Look, this might not mean anything to you, but it does to me. Ever since this whole Maribelle Stacy thing started, I finally got what I've always wanted… or, at least what I _thought_ I wanted."

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

"Damn it, Mr. Burns, I love you!"

"I love you, too, Maribelle," Monty returned in mock affection, seemingly oblivious to the demons he'd provoked within the other.

"No, damn it! _I_ love you. Me – Waylon Smithers, not Maribelle Stacy. I, _Waylon Smithers_ , love you."

With that, Burns heaved a sigh and lowered his head. He closed his eyes to collect his thoughts before patting the crumbling man atop the shoulder. He tutted, yet his voice held a foreign air of sympathy. "Smithers, Smithers, Smithers," he said as he shook his head, "you have to learn to separate yourself from characters if you're going to make it in this busi-,"

"Oh, shove it, Monty," Waylon spat before moving to sit on the edge of the tub. Tears blurred his already nearsighted vision, his eyes casting toward the floor, and he grumbled just above a whisper, "I'm not the one who has the problem separating myself from Maribelle."

"Eh?"

Typically, he would have restrained himself, lowered himself back into compliance. However, Waylon cleared his throat and spoke strongly, "I said, it's not me who has the problem. Sir, all I've ever wanted was for you to show me some type of reciprocation, some kind of sign that maybe you actually cared for me the way I do you. I never meant for any of this to happen, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy having you go all ga-ga over Maribelle." His tone dropped, "damn it, Stewart was right – I was jealous of myself. Ugh, never mind that! My point is, I thought going along with all this would help me realize all those feelings, but it just made me make a fool out of myself. It was silly of me to think Maribelle would change how you felt about me. You might love her, but you don't love me..."

"Always with this sappy nonsense," Burns muttered, though his tone was soft and almost caring. He moved to sit next to Waylon on the edge of the tub, hesitantly patting the man's back. "Smithers, I never wanted our relationship to get to the point where I'd have to say this, but… well, I do have a rather soft spot for you. You're one of the finest workers, next to your father, that I've ever had." A bittersweet chuckle flitted from the scrawny chest. "In fact, the companionship between you and I isn't much different from what your father and I had. Both of you, loyal to a fault."

The conversation's turn twisted the assistant's stomach. Fractals of different emotions erupted a fire deep within his core, and the overlapping contradictions of rejection and acceptance overrode all sensible thoughts. Miraculously, despite trembling and feeling faint, he managed to find his footing and stood. "I'm sorry, sir, b-but I just want to go home."

* * *

"Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood."

― George Orwell, 1984


	16. That's a Wrap

"To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment."

― Ralph Waldo Emerson

* * *

Chapter Sixteen

That's a Wrap

"Smithers, please," Burns began with an atypical plea, following Waylon to the door and grasping his shoulder, "do you have any idea how many strings I had to pull to get you here? Now, buck up and let's finish this dinner."

"I'd rather not."

"It wasn't a question, Smithers," Burns continued, his voice stern and his glare firm. He made a motion to block the door, his eyes narrowing on Waylon's made-up face. "Ahem-," Burns cleared his throat, gesturing his elbow toward the other, "come along now, Maribelle."

Waylon's ego further deflated and his chest wilted with a sigh. His eyes shifted toward the floor, which drew his attention to the fact that he was nearly blind, as he'd littered his contacts on the floor. He grimaced at the inconvenience and waved his hand toward the door. "Of course, sir, but I need to find my contacts first. You could go on ahead and I'll be with you in a minute."

Burns simply rolled his eyes before stealthily sliding back into the hall, shutting the door behind him.

"Burnsie," the stout producer obnoxiously greeted as he slung an arm around Burns' fragile shoulders, "everything alright between you and the misses?"

A forced smile and chirp, "why, of course! Things couldn't be better. You know how fussy women can be."

The producer boomed with laughter, ushering his friend down the corridor and back to the dining area. "Indeed, indeed! Between the hair appointments and nail salons, I'm surprised you've still got a pretty penny to your name."

"Yes, well, anything for my dearest."

Those parting words were the last that managed to reach Waylon's ears as he rested against the bathroom door. His gaze hadn't left the floor, though he wasn't searching for his contacts nearly as much as he was his dignity. He glared at the tiles, hoping a seedling of his former life would somehow sprout from betwixt them; it was a hope that seemed to yield no fruit, as he all found were the dusty contacts.

He knelt onto the floor to retrieve them, muttering fragments of hurt and anger under his breath. The position strained the skirt, which clung to his legs like saran wrap, hugging him awkwardly as he bent. The shoes, too, tightened upon his toes, biting them like a vengeful beast and cutting off circulation. The outfit hadn't seemed so uncomfortable before, and Waylon struggled to determine if it was the kneeling or the shame that made it so painful.

"C'mon," he groaned, a single contact in his hand, "where's the other one?" His hands blindly roamed the floor, the chill of the tile oddly soothing. He outstretched his arm closer toward the toilet only to recoil after his hand landed in a pool of water. With squinted eyes, he noticed the other contact overturned, floating atop the puddle's surface. "Ugh, of course..."

Waylon's nose scrunched in disgust as he snaked his hand beneath the leaking pipe of the toilet, quickly fishing his contact out of the puddle and rising from the floor. He swiftly darted to the sink, setting the contacts atop the counter before turning on the faucet and lathering his hands in a rich soap. Once washed, he dried his hands as best he could and gathered his purse, rummaging through it's contents in search of the contacts' case and solution. Before he could find what he sought, however, his fingers glided over the sleek surface of his phone case, which brought back the sprout of hope.

His eyes brightened and a grin dressed his face. He pulled the phone from the purse, taking a seat on the edge of the tub as he unlocked the screen. Bringing it closer to his face in a bid to see his contact list clearly, Waylon brought up his ongoing conversation with Julio and added to it:

 _New Text Message to Julio:_

 _Dinner's over, but we're having some mechanical trouble with the limo. Could you come pick me up?_

It was a lie, but Waylon had grown quite used to lying over the years; and, what with the time he'd spent portraying the biggest lie called Maribelle, he felt little remorse over a fib so small as car trouble. He clutched his phone tightly, bouncing his knee in impatience as he waited for the response. The smile on his face hadn't faltered, nor had he even noticed it. He only took notice to the relief that washed over his mind, feeling it wash away most of Maribelle's control.

A sharp ding hit his ears:

 _New Text Message from Julio:_

 _Only if jew promise to give me all the details when I get there._

Waylon couldn't help but chuckle and roll his eyes at the message and the winking emoji that followed, a feeling he'd forgotten since before the conception of the makeshift woman:

 _New Text Message to Julio:_

 _Yeah, sure, whatever. Just come get me – now._

 _New Text Message from Julio:_

 _Alright, alright, just give me a few minutes to get dressed._

Typically, Waylon would have questioned why the other hadn't been dressed in the first place, but this wasn't a typical situation. He relaxed a tad, body slumping in relief before managing to rise from the edge of the tub. He slid the phone back into the purse and tossed it over his shoulder, returning to the sink and focusing on cleansing the contacts.

It wasn't long after they'd been cleansed and returned to their home above his irises that a loud knocking came from the opposite side of the door. Waylon growled to himself and bit his tongue, letting his frustration cool down to a simmer before restoring Maribelle's voice.

The woman called, "just a minute, Monty!"

However, instead of a calculated hiss, he heard a crackly, somewhat goofy laugh. The young teen that had earlier escorted her to the restroom nervously piped up, "um, sorry to bother you miss, but I was sent to get you. You see, my boss has finished his dinner and is ready to go over the script-thing your – err, boyfriend…? - gave him."

Inwardly, Waylon cringed at the word that would have normally made his heart swoon, but his thoughts were pushed aside as Maribelle exited the restroom. The teen's eyes went from tired to enchanted as he watched the woman adjust her skirt, and he instantly offered his elbow with a blush burning under his acne-splotched face.

"S-so, uh," the young assistant stammered, avoiding eye contact as Maribelle's arm hooked about his own, "is everything alright? You were in there a really long time."

Maribelle sighed and used her free hand to brush a curly strand of brunette hair from in front of her exhausted expression. She nodded, but soon noticed the teen was staring at his feet rather than her face; so, she responded, "fine, just not feeling so great."

"Oh, that's too bad… ho-hope you feel better."

A tiny smile curled painted lips, "thanks, I'm sure I'll be fine once all of this is over."

Before the boy could continue to contribute to the conversation, they'd reached the dining hall. The assistant released the woman's arm and excused himself into the kitchen, allowing the older gentlemen to enjoy her company in private. However, while the pudgy man at the head of the table seemed to enjoy Maribelle's return, Monty simply stared at her with subtle disapproval.

"Maribelle," Burns sneered with a phony hint of chipper, "nice of you to join us again, darling. Is everything alright?"

Maribelle nodded, but stubbornly refused to take a seat. She knelt over Burns' shoulder, bosoms pressing against the sharped bones, and spoke in a whisper that was still loud enough for both of them to hear, "err, Monty, sweetheart, I hope you don't mind, but I've arranged for a friend to come pick me up; I'm really not feeling so well."

Burns' brow rose with livid intent before settling into false concern when the producer awkwardly eyed him. The scrawny man cleared his throat and planted a shaky kiss to the woman's cheek, "of course, dear, you just leave all this business nonsense to me." While the tone it was delivered in sounded sweet, the bitter core of it created the fear of sabotage in Waylon's heart.

"Not feeling well, you say?" The boisterous man sympathetically announced before elbowing Monty with a hearty laugh. "Well, well, Monty, don't suppose you've got a little one on the way, do you, now?" The laughter continued like an active, overflowing volcano, causing the other two's stomachs to churn.

"Highly unlikely," Burns dully returned with an unfavorable glare at the man before returning his attention back to Maribelle. "Run along, dear, I'll be along shortly."

Maribelle once again nodded, surprised her neck hadn't sprained from the repetitive submission of the evening. She lowered her head, returning the timid and bitter kiss to Burns' wrinkled cheek before turning toward the exit hall. It took the single motion for the producer to beckon to his lackey, who once again escorted the woman, this time toward the exit of the mansion.

* * *

The young ward shyly wished the woman the best when they'd reached the concrete steps outside the mansion. He noticed a car sitting idle a short distance beyond the gate, nodding his head toward the vehicle. "Well, I guess that's your ride…?"

Maribelle turned to follow the teen's gaze, noticing a familiar, tanned face smiling from behind the window. "Y-yeah, that's my ride," she agreed, slowly making her way down the steps. "Thank your boss for the lovely evening, and please give him my apologies for leaving so early."

"No problem, miss Maribelle!" The other chimed before disappearing behind the door, which he proceeded to crash against and sighed, his boyish crush bubbling in his chest. "What a woman!"

* * *

The moment Waylon settled into the passenger's seat of Julio's car, he yanked the wig from his head, bobby pins flying to the floorboard and atop the dash, to which Julio scowled.

"What's dee matter, _Maribelle_ ," he teased, unaware of the true anger he was unleashing.

"Don't call me that ever again!" Waylon barked, swiping his lipstick onto his arm and slipping off the shoes that had been crushing his toes. "If I never hear the name Maribelle Stacy again, it'll be too soon."

"Whoa, Waylon, Waylon," Julio soothed, genuine concern seeping from between his pearly whites. He placed a hand on the other's shoulder, noting the large tension knot and massaging it with his thumb, "relax and tell me what's going on. Why are jew so upset?"

"Why am I so upset?" Waylon scoffed, removing the contacts and rummaging through the purse for his glasses. He returned the wired-rims to the bridge of his nose, his face burning against the metal with rage and slight embarrassment. However, rather than pose an argument with the man gracious enough to give him a ride home and an impromptu massage that he'd just come to realize, Waylon heaved a breath and relaxed against Julio's fingertips. "I just don't know how much more of this I can take, Julio. This whole thing has gotten way out of hand. And, for what? I don't have a snowball's chance of Burns actually giving me enough positive advertisement to get my show produced."

* * *

The producer gave a few more rioting chuckles at some off-topic jokes between him and his friend. Finally, after the stalling, he returned to the script, thumbing through the pages with a surprisingly diligent and serious eye. He tutted and shook his head, but not due to the script, "I tell you, Monty, it's a real shame Ms. Stacy wasn't feeling up to par. She's written quite the excellent play here."

Burns perked up a bit, chin lifting from his fingertips. "Oh?"

"Yes, yes! It's really a wonderful read. You should count your lucky stars to have found a woman with such beauty _and_ smarts. They're hard to come by these days, you know?"

"Yes, they are," Monty countered, curiously peering over toward the script, "aren't they?"

"You know, I'd be happy to give my seal of approval!" The producer suddenly boomed, reaching into the pocket of his dinner-jacket and withdrawing his checkbook. "Now, uh, how much would you two love-birds need to get things ready? I can handle the venue and actors, but I'm sure she'd enjoy a nice little shopping spree for costumes and whatnot. Ha, what woman wouldn't, am I right?" He elbowed a suddenly nervous Burns in the ribs before lowering a pen to one of the blank checks, "now, how does she spell her name? With an 'i' or a 'y'?"

The question, one so simple and small, was a large enough weight to break Monty's spirits. He reached a trembling hand to the other man's plump wrist, weakly holding the pen just above the paper slip. In an unusually shaky voice, Burns spoke in a stuttering sigh, "i-if you're so insistent on all of this hooey, then please, make the check out to..." he froze for a moment, voice lowering. "Waylon Smithers."

* * *

"The truth is rarely pure and never simple."

― Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest


	17. Curtain Call

"Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts."

― Winston S. Churchill

* * *

Chapter Seventeen

Curtain Call

A month had expired, each day stuffy with anxiety. Waylon and Burns spoke shortly with each other, their conversations stiff fragments. There was no talk of the dinner nor of how it ended, despite it being the main topic on each of their minds. Outside of work, there was no talk at all.

Burns was hunched over his desk, his eyes skimming a stack of papers. He'd been scanning that same stack for a month, never editing it or making any comments, simply reading and re-reading. The behavior was questionable, as he'd often left that sort of work to Smithers, but Waylon never questioned it. Whether it was fear or embarrassment that kept the mutual silence, it was irritating nonetheless.

Somehow, the office seemed less quiet when Burns was alone. Without Smithers lingering over his shoulder or droning on about one report or another, Burns could hear nothing but his own thoughts. The thoughts were screeching, nibbling his eardrum as they threatened to escape his mind and pollute the physical world. They replayed the first night he'd met Maribelle, the instant feelings of being smitten, the horror of discovering he was fooled by layers of makeup and peaks of silicone. They wailed quotes from the screenplay on his desk, quotes from Shakespeare's "Hamlet" that had started the whole chain reaction, and the words the producer had blathered on the night everything crumbled.

His fingers trembled as the thoughts berated him, failing multiple times to peel one page away from the others. After several paper cuts slashed his fingertips, the pages separated with the lubrication of trace amounts of blood. He ignored the rubies that dotted the corner of the script, his mind so consumed with mixed emotions that it focused on nothing other than the words on the paper.

Icy eyes slugged along the first paragraph to the last, not absorbing a single bit of the text; he'd become so familiar with its contents that it didn't much matter. He knew the story from title to the handwritten scrawl of notes Smithers had attached to the last page. Burns could have recited the play as though he'd written it himself, not a single stutter over any word. It was imprinted into his mind, for the story played out so familiarly. Aside from name alterations and a few tweaks of character, the play unraveled the relationship between him and his ward.

A daub of scarlet concealed one of the words he'd been staring at, bringing him back to reality. He scowled at how such minor injuries churned out a liberal amount of blood; just one of the many things age plagued him with.

"Blast!" he swore, scooting his chair to the opposite side of the desk. He pushed a button attached to a microphone with his non-injured hand, speaking in his typically cold nature, "Smithers, report to my office post-haste!"

The shout was distributed across the plant. Each section of the building twisted to the nearest intercom in their sector, their breaths held in fear that their name would be called. Relief washed over the majority of them, while others closer to Smithers' latest work station (filing papers in the mail room) snickered.

"And just what is so funny?" Waylon snapped at a group of men sorting letters on the opposite side. "Just because I'm down here, doesn't mean I can't still take your jobs. Get back to work."

Stewart's uncle smirked, remembering the day he'd provided the superior with a playbill. "Now, now, simmer down," he spoke in his Southern drawl, "we're just havin' a little fun with ya, Mr. Smithers."

Waylon snorted in distaste, rolling his eyes, "yeah, well, we'll see how much fun you'll be having standing in the unemployment line."

"Smithers!" The intercom boomed, this time casting a fearful silence over the mail room.

Without a parting word, Waylon arose from his chair, collecting his clipboard and heading toward the exit. His eyes transfixed to the floor, though his mind was so cluttered that the tiles seemed distant. His heart was near to burst as the tiles swirled, switching from one pattern to another when he entered another hallway. The blurs coupled with the buzzing worries caused his stomach to churn, and his fears of being fired ballooned.

He was sure his job was terminated the night of his final act as Maribelle, having spent most of the night typing, erasing, and reformulating apology letters. He had one of the many drafts tucked into the pocket of his jacket the next morning, ready to deliver it to his boss as a plea for mercy. However, the paper never saw beyond the confines of his pocket, for Burns took one glance at him and began the usual orders, demanding coffee and files.

While that should have given Waylon a sense of security, it provided little comfort. He felt like a mouse, fearful that any move he made would land him in the jaws of a cat. Burns could so easily be compared to a predator animal, waiting patiently and toying with his prey. Providing his victim with a false sense of safety before deciding to gut the lesser like a fish. Burns was bloodthirsty, yet sadistic enough to allow a game of cat and mouse to play out before getting his fill.

Smithers' heart raced to the point of stopping, leaving his chest feeling empty. His stomach lurched as he reached the office, threatening to tarnish the carpet below. Swallowing whatever bile slicked his throat, he opened the door and entered, approaching the desk with a shaky, patented smile.

"S-sir…?" He questioned, his voice more high-pitched than normal.

Burns' eyes peered at the man, his finger displayed, still trickling with blood. He cleared his throat as a gesture to the injury.

"Huh? Oh!" Smithers promptly noticed the nicks and moved to assist the elder. He rummaged through the first aid kit kept in the lowest drawer of the desk, removing tufts of cotton and pressing it against the flesh. The purity of the cotton was soured with blotches of burgundy, causing Smithers' nose to crinkle. "Um, not to pry or anything, sir, but," he piped up, eyes focusing on the stack of papers he'd seen, yet didn't recognize, for the past month, "maybe you should let me handle the paperwork. I know we didn't leave off on the best of terms, but it'd save you a lot of trouble… and bandages."

The other scoffed, using his free hand to hide the title sprawled on the top of the stack, "nonsense, Smithers. I'm more than capable to handle my own matters."

"Of course, sir, but I just thi-,"

"Hush!"

A brief silence fell, the only sounds being the crinkling of bandage wrappers. Smithers sighed in frustration as he layered a third bandage around the appendage. Much like a suppressed nurse in a doctor-dominated hospital, he bit back whatever retort was resting on his tongue. He completed his task, returned the first aid kit to its proper place, and started toward the door.

"Ahem, Smithers," Burns began, his voice shifting into an unsure tone. His eyes flickered from his bandaged finger to the script before finally targeting his assistant. The tone change was subtle, but Smithers had become a connoisseur of detecting the smallest of changes in Burns. Waylon twisted around to face the other, being beckoned by the curling of a finger.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously behind his glasses, following Burns' motions to the uppermost drawer. A slip of paper was pulled from the drawer, one that the man stared at with a crinkle in his brow.

"There's something I've been meaning to discuss with you about your little ruse last month."

The cat swiped its paw, striking a fear that paled Waylon's skin and tightened his posture. Before Burns could continue, the younger started rambling a profuse apology, "sir, I can't tell you how sorry I am about all this. I never intended for it to go that far. I wasn't trying to-,"

"Here."

The slip of paper was pushed across the desk, stopping the blathering. Waylon froze, staring at the paper but unable to understand the print.

"Wha-what's this?"

"What does it look like, Smithers?" Burns snapped, his voice returning to its regular nature. "It's a check; worth quite a pretty penny, I might add."

"I… I don't understand..."

"For blaze's sakes, man! When someone throws a check your way, the last thing you should do is question it! Now, remove it from my sight before I change my mind."

Smithers did as he was told, folding the slip and tucking it into his pocket, but he didn't stop his questions. "Yes, sir, but I'm still a little confused. Why are you giving this to me?"

Monty sighed and threw himself further into his chair. He shook his head, tutting. With a harsh breath, he dully explained, "as I was saying, regarding last month's dinner. It seems that oaf of a man found a great deal of potential in this-," he motioned his head to the stack of papers, which he then proceeded to pass to Waylon. "Turns out you made quite the impression. After you so rudely left, I was a man of my word and continued with the business arrangements. We discussed things such as actors and venues, which he'll be seeing to, and costumes and props. That, Waylon, is where you come in." Burns smirked at the pale and befuddled expression on his assistant's face. "The check is for a few thousand dollars to purchase whatever you see fit for your actors' attire. Now, you can either take the money and get this show on the road, or you can return it to me to with what I please."

"Sir, I… I don't know what to say," Smithers stammered, his lips faltering into a few expressions before finally curling into an apprehensive grin. He chuckled nervously, "b-but, how can I cash a check in Maribelle Stacy's name? She's not even re-,"

"Are you blind, man?! Did you even look at the signature?" Burns seethed for a moment, splaying his fingers along his brow, kneading the bridge of his nose before continuing, "the check is made out to you, Smithers. If you didn't hear me before, I told you I took care of business, meaning that everything has been squared away. Everyone now knows that Maribelle was nothing more than a facade – a joke."

Smithers' lips quivered into a smile, his heart beating in a wonky flutter, and a mist of grateful tears glazed his eyes. He gave a hearty laugh, extending his hands and clasping them around one of Burns', shaking in a near violent manner.

"Oh, sir, thank you so much. You have no idea how much this means to me. I can't believe he'd actually agree with the fund-," he froze, Burns' hand slipping from between his own, and his smile fell into a grimace, "he, um, he is still the one funding this, right? I mean, he wasn't… I don't know, angry?"

"Some men are far more agreeable than I. Said something about how he used to scheme his way to the top with one ridiculous ploy or another, perhaps there was some empathy for you. Had it been up to me, you wouldn't have gotten a penny, but that wasn't my decision."

It hadn't been fully his decision, but in a small fraction, Burns still was the one to correct the name and hand over the check. With a month to make the decision, he could have easily thrown it into the shredder, never mentioning it again. He also could have fired Waylon on a whim, yet that didn't come to fruition either. There may have been some question of Burns understanding of empathy, but it seemed there was a glimmer of it buried within his hardened personality.

Before Smithers could carry the conversation into deeper territory, Burns arose from his chair and nudged his assistant's back with both palms, edging the young man toward the door.

"Yes, well, that's enough chatting for one afternoon. I'd suggest you get to the market before the stores close. Chop, chop, Smithers!"

A curious grunt was all that the ward could express before the door shut in his face, his boss pressed against the opposite side, waiting to hear the sound of fleeting footsteps.

* * *

A week had passed since the check was placed in his care, and all but some change had been spent. Waylon absently grinned as he carried a bundle of fabric into the dressing room that he once despised. He passed one of the cloths to Stewart, who was pinning the pieces together on one of the foam mannequins.

"Gee, Waylon, it's so great to see you so happy again," Stewart commented, his eyes taking only a moment to glance at the other before returning to focus on the sewing.

"Jeah, Waylon, just last week jew were on jour way to cardiac arrest. I guess jew can buy happiness, after all."

Waylon playfully rolled his eyes and took a seat atop the trunk of props. He placed the extra fabrics on the opposite side of the chest and picked up a copy of his script, giving it a final glance. "It's not because of the money, Julio. Sure, it helped with pulling all this together, but I'm just happy that Burns didn't completely turn his back on me."

"Waylon," Julio sighed with a chortle, sitting next to Waylon and patting one of his broad shoulders, "jew worry too much. After all this time, do jew really think Burns would ever completely get rid of jew?"

"Well, he has fired me a few times before."

"That's my point! If he really wanted to get rid of jew, he would have fired you jew once and replaced jew, end of story."

Stewart's light humming turned into an agreement, "that's true, Waylon. It might not be in the way you wanted, but somewhere deep down inside, Burns loves you on some level. He just doesn't know how to express it."

Smithers froze, the script falling limp is his hands, and his mind pondered the situation. He'd spent years so focused on his lusting and yearning for Burns, that any other form of affection fell to a blind eye. In a roundabout manner, Burns showed him admiration, albeit in the form of yelling or constant neediness. To have perpetually been fired only to be rehired within a matter of days was a sign that, while it may not be on a romantic level, Burns had some care for him.

"I guess I never thought of it that way…."

"It took jew all these years to figure that out? And I thought Stewart was slow on the uptake."

"Hey!"

"No offense, of course."

"Thank you."

Waylon shook his head at how simple Stewart could be at times, turning the conversation to the time.

"Well, this is it. Only ten more minutes until showtime. I guess I should get up to the lodge."

* * *

The theater was filled to the brim, whispers collecting to form a loud chatter amongst the crowd. The noise weighed on Waylon's nerves, both worrying and exciting him. Anticipation fluttered within his ribcage, worsening as he entered a small box-like room above the audience.

"Waylon Smithers, I presume," the producer he'd met at the dinner greeted. He laughed for a moment before extending a meaty hand. "I would say it's nice to meet you, but I think that's been taken care of. So, it's nice to meet you in pants, I suppose!" Another roar of laughter and a hefty handshake transpired, leaving Waylon feeling awkward yet thankful.

"I can't tell you enough how sorry I am about all that."

"Water under the bridge, my good man! Water under the bridge," the producer guffawed, scooting aside on the bench to make room for the other. He patted the vacant space he'd created. "Come, sit, sit."

"Yes, Smithers," Burns added with an oddly chipper voice, "sit. Only two minutes until this little play of yours begins."

As Smithers quietly settled between the men, the producer stole a glance at his watch.

"Two minutes? Gracious, does time ever fly! I'd better make a quick pit-stop before the show. Pardon me, gentlemen," the beefy man babbled as he shifted his weight over the set of knees and toward the tiny door. His footfalls were loud, the narrow staircase leading to the lower portion of the theater creaking under his girth.

Once the creaking had subsided, an uncomfortable hush cloaked the two men in the booth. Smithers' hands wrung around themselves, rolling between his knees, while Burns twiddled his thumbs and gazed blankly at the ceiling.

"Err, Mr. Burns, I just wanted to thank you again for everythi-,"

"Hush," Burns shushed to silence the other, but his tone was far of harsh. In fact, it was soft, almost caring. His eyes left the ceiling and landed on the side of Smithers' face; the elder's body shifted a bit closer before gaining the courage to clap the other on the back. "After all, what are..." he paused for a moment, his face twisting a tad, "fr-friends… for?"

Waylon's body bolted upright, his eyes widening and lips turning into a confused grin. His neck instinctively craned toward Burns as he replied, "friends?"

"You know how I feel about repeating myself, Waylon."

Despite the words, Smithers' lips seemed twisted into a never-fleeting grin. His head dropped meekly to the floor and he spoke in what seemed to be a laugh, "thank you, sir."

The conversation was cut at that point, the producer reentering the booth with a grin on his face and a bucket of popcorn in the crook of his arm.

"Hope you two like butter."

* * *

END

* * *

"The truth is, everyone is going to hurt you.

You just got to find the ones worth suffering for."

― Bob Marley


End file.
